


Of Small Boys and Sandwiches

by Gypsy_Rose_2014



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Comedy, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Family, Romance, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-30
Updated: 2014-08-27
Packaged: 2018-02-06 20:54:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 59,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1872138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gypsy_Rose_2014/pseuds/Gypsy_Rose_2014
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A letter from the infamous Irene Adler reveals that a small boy raised in a convent is the product of a particularly productive dinner date. Will five year old Gabriel be a blessing or Sherlock's 'just desserts'?  Previously pubbed on FF.net.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Arrival

**Author's Note:**

> This story originally started as a challenge to write a parentLock fic that wasn't JohnLock. I took up the challenge and it's gotten bit out of control. The only characters contained within that belong to me are the ones you don't recognize (Gabriel, etc.). It was/ is posted on Fanfiction.net as well. There are places where it can be a bit steamy in later chapters. Enjoy!

Anthea thought about how there wasn’t enough money in the entirety of the Queen’s treasury to pay her for what she’d been through tonight. There was nothing in her job description that said being a nursemaid to an unruly child was a required duty. Once again, she’d succumbed to Mycroft’s charm and promises of a sizeable Christmas bonus.

“Don’t touch that,” she snapped at the small boy who slumped across from her on the seat, playing with the buttons on his armrest. He stared at her, opening his blue eyes wide and raising an eyebrow as he let the window down once more. An evil grin crossed his features as he waved his arm out of the window to feel the chill autumn breeze against his skin. Anthea rolled her eyes and used her own controls to close the window, the glass narrowly missing the boy’s arm as he jerked it away.

“That wasn’t very nice!” the boy grumbled.

“I’m not a very nice girl,” she replied, taking up her phone. She opened her text folder and found several from Mycroft:

_“Take the boy to 221 B Baker Street.”_

_“Tell my brother as little as possible.”_

_“No word on Miss A. We can only assume she is deceased.”_

Anthea sighed. It was true that she didn’t care much for her employer’s snarky younger brother, but even Sherlock didn’t deserve to be saddled with such a beast. Since they’d managed to track him down at the old convent, he’d been one disaster after another. Kicking and screaming to stay at the convent, refusing to take a bath, splashing mud all over her new dress… Anthea was not cut out for motherhood, that was clear.

“Where are we going?” the boy asked with an exasperated sigh. “I’m hungry.”

“I’m taking you home,” she replied, not looking up from her mobile.

“Back to the convent?”

“No. Your real home.”

“My real home was St. Christopher’s.” The boy crossed his arms over his chest and glared at Anthea. She almost felt sorry for the kid. He’d been raised by those nuns as long as he could remember and now his entire life had been turned upside down. He was going to a strange place where he knew no one, a new home he’d never seen and was expected to live with a man he’d never met. Not to mention that it was pretty clear that Mycroft had said very little to Sherlock. He may not even believe that the child was his son.

Anthea leaned forward and took the boy’s hand. “Look, Gabriel, I know that all of this seems bleak, but if you give it a chance, you may find that it’s the best thing that ever happened to you.” He started to grumble a reply when the car screeched to a halt in front of a narrow black door. “We’re here,” Anthea said, dropping Gabriel’s hand.

 

****

 

Gabriel stepped out of the car and stared up at the cold brick building. He covered his ears, the noise of the cars rushing by was so loud. The woman who brought him here paused to pull his overnight bag out of the boot and then took his hand. He stared at it, considering whether he should take it or continue muffling the frantic sounds of the cars behind him. He chose the latter and rushed toward the door. 221B, the door screamed with its gold lettering. Gabriel had heard the tall man with the cold eyes say that was where he was going. The woman handed him his bag and briskly knocked the brass clapper against the black door. At first no one answered and Gabriel was sure that no one was home. He started to relax a bit and even smiled at the thought that they might actually take him back to St. Christopher’s. It was hours away, but that would be hours away from this noisy, busy place. At that moment, a police car rushed by with its siren blaring. Gabriel let out a little whimper and dropped his bag, covering his ears again.

“What’s wrong?” the woman asked.

“Too loud,” he whined, pointing at the street behind them. “This place is too loud!” He was on the verge of a meltdown. His heart beat faster and suddenly the air around him was thin. “I want to go home!” he shouted, his hands now pulling at his messy, overgrown curls. Just as Gabriel was about to launch into a full blown fit, the door before them opened and a tiny old lady peeked out.

“Something wrong, dear?” she asked. Gabriel stopped, looking into the old woman’s face. It was a kind face, worn with the creases of age, but kind. She knelt down to be on the child’s level, addressing him rather than the tall woman. “Who might you be?”

“It’s too loud,” Gabriel replied.

“Well that’s London for you,” the old lady replied, standing to her full height and turning to the tall woman. “Good evening, Anthea.”

“Hello Mrs. Hudson,” Anthea replied, offering a terse smile. “Is Mr. Holmes in? We need to see him.”

“Of course, dear. Just come right in before you catch a chill.” She took Gabriel’s hand in one of hers and his bag in the other, not giving him a chance to protest, and led them inside. Anthea closed the door behind them and followed Mrs. Hudson up the stairs. “Sherlock!” the older woman called as they started up to the second floor. Gabriel’s short legs struggled up the steep staircase and he kept a tight grip on Mrs. Hudson’s hand.

Gabriel’s eyes were everywhere as they reached the top of the stairs. The flat was cluttered, but looked almost cozy. A fire blazed in the hearth across from them and Gabriel was glad. It had been so cold outside. A couple of armchairs and a couch that looked like it had been salvaged from a rummage sale were thrown a bit haphazardly about. He peeked around Mrs. Hudson and noticed that all manner of scientific looking bits and bobs were strewn across every available surface in the kitchen. Gabriel felt a little twinge of excitement, wanting to examine and touch everything, including the microscope that sat so precariously on the tabletop. “What happened to the wall?” Gabriel asked, pointing to where a funny yellow smiley face had been painted on the matronly wallpaper.

“I shot it.” All three turned to see the man standing in the hallway. He was tall and thin, wearing a dark suit cut close, making his narrow form look even taller and thinner. Despite his earlier surliness, Gabriel took a step behind Mrs. Hudson and closer to Anthea. The newcomer was intimidating with the same cold, narrow eyes as the man who’d taken him from St. Christopher’s.

“Sherlock…” Mrs. Hudson started. “Don’t frighten the boy.”

“I was simply answering the boy’s question,” Sherlock answered dryly. He walked over to Gabriel and stared down at him. Those cold, calculating eyes seemed to take in the small boy, examining every centimeter with a clinical interest. “Well there’s surely no doubt as to his lineage, that’s for sure. Dark hair with little regard for a brush, blue eyes obviously affected by heterochromia, large feet and hands for a child of five and mathematically speaking there would be no denying him, I suppose.”

“Mathematically?” Anthea asked.

“Of course. Given that the boy is just over five years of age, count back nine months from there, give or take a few days and that would match up to the period of time I spent with his mother. Simple.”

Anthea could only nod and then moved on to rummaging in her bag. She came up with a sealed envelope, slightly singed around the edges and handed it to Sherlock. “We found this in a locked box at a burned out house in Faringdon. It should explain everything.” She patted Gabriel on the head, tousling his hair roughly. He hated that. “I must be off. Good luck.” And before anyone could stop her, she was gone. Gabriel thought about running down the stairs after her, begging her to take him back to St. Christopher’s but something about the stranger’s presence kept Gabriel rooted to his spot. He watched as the stranger pocketed the large envelope and straightened his jacket.

“I’m Sherlock,” he said, offering his hand to the child. Gabriel stared at it and then looked at Mrs. Hudson for reassurance. The old woman smiled warmly and nodded. The boy reluctantly took his hand and shook it. “This is Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock said, the arc of his eyebrow indicating that Gabriel should say hello.

“Hello, Mrs. Hudson,” Gabriel said, mimicking Sherlock and offering his hand. She took it and knelt down to the little boy.

“What’s your name, little one?” she asked, her voice considerably more gentle than the deep menacing tone of Sherlock’s.

“My name is Gabriel. After the angel.”

“Oh really?” Mrs. Hudson cooed. “And are you as sweet as an angel?”

He giggled. “I don’t know.”

“I’ll bet you are,” she replied, patting the back of Gabriel’s hand. “Oooh… your hands are cold. Why aren’t you wearing a coat?”

“I don’t have a coat,” Gabriel replied, looking almost ashamed. He was cold, almost shivering in the freezing November air. At St. Christopher’s they hadn’t had much money and he had outgrown the threadbare coat he’d been given last year.

“Well then we’ll have to sit you down by the fire and warm you up,” she said, leading him past Sherlock and over to the fire. “You just sit right down here and I’ll bring you a nice cup of cocoa and a couple of biscuits.” The old woman disappeared down the stairs and that roiling feeling in his stomach started all over again. He heard some papers rustling. Sherlock stood behind him, reading the letter left in the scorched envelope. He made no sound and his face offered no clue as to what the letter said. Gabriel assumed that it was something about him. A letter explaining how this man was his father and that now he would have to live here in this noisy, busy place. Perhaps it would also explain why his mother had decided to leave him all alone with strangers.

“Sherlock!” Gabriel was startled at the sound of another deep voice echoing through the flat. Quick footsteps sounded on the stairs as whoever it was took them two at a time. “Sorry, I’m late. I had this lady come into the surgery right at the end. She was in labor and I thought…” He stopped short, seeing Gabriel sitting by the fire.

“John, this is Gabriel,” Sherlock replied, not looking up from the letter.

“Hello, mate,” the one called John said, cheerfully offering his hand to the little boy. “I’m John Watson.”

“Do you live here too?” Gabriel asked.

“I do. Sherlock and I share the flat. My room is upstairs.”

“Oh.”

“How old are you, Gabriel?” John asked.

“I’m five. I guess.”

“You guess? Don’t you know?”

“Well, we never really had birthdays at St. Christopher’s. Sister Margaret told me that I was five before I went with the tall man.”

“The tall man?” John chuckled. “Who is the tall man?”

“The one that said I had to come live here.”

“Mycroft, obviously,” Sherlock mumbled. He folded the letter and stuffed it back into the scorched envelope before tossing it onto the counter at his side. “Did he say anything else to you?”

Gabriel shrugged. He wasn’t sure how to address Sherlock and every time he asked him a question, Gabriel felt those little nervous flutters in his stomach again. “He just told me that my mum was dead and I’d have to live with my father.”

“Charming,” John grumbled. “Mycroft makes Adolf Hitler look warm and compassionate.”

To Gabriel’s relief, Mrs. Hudson came bustling back up the stairs with a tray of biscuits and cups. “I brought tea for everyone except the boy,” she said. “You, my good man,” she started, handing a cup to Gabriel, “get my extra special hot cocoa.” He smiled. He thought he was going to like Mrs. Hudson.

“Nevermind that just yet,” Sherlock sighed, taking the cup from the boy’s hands. “Before this goes any further we should have an understanding. We do have rules here.”


	2. Uncertainty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Gabriel feels he's jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire.

Looking down at Gabriel, Sherlock felt a shiver down into the marrow of his bones. It was truly like looking into the past and seeing yourself at age five. In fact, he could barely see any of Irene whatsoever. Perhaps the scattering of freckles across his nose or the way the corner of his mouth pricked up just a little when he spoke, but otherwise Gabriel could have been a clone. “There are several of us living here and we aren’t really equipped for children. So you’ll have to amuse yourself and try not to bother anyone…”

“Sherlock,” John started. “He’s just a kid. I’m sure he won’t be much of a bother.”

“Still. I have no use for children who can’t be seen and not heard.” His own stomach flipped a little as he heard his father’s voice coming out of his mouth. He’d heard that same speech over and over as a child and had sworn he’d never use that expression. Apparently humans are doomed to grow up as copies of their parents. For good or ill. He cleared his throat and started off toward the stairs. “Up you get. Your room is this way.” He reached down and picked up the small overnight bag that the boy had brought with him. “Is this all you have?”

“Yes,” Gabriel replied simply. “I had to leave most stuff behind.” He stood up and began to follow Sherlock up the stairs, looking back over his shoulder at John with a helpless expression, his eyes pleading for him to follow.

“Rule one: these stairs are uneven and noisy. Running down them will end in disaster. Don’t do it.” The words had no sooner left his lips than Sherlock stumbled on the stairs and had to steady himself with a hand on the wall. “See?” He pointed toward a room on one side of the stairs. “That’s John’s room. If you hear strange laughter in the middle of the night coming from behind that door, just ignore it. Whatever you do, don’t open the door.”

“Oi! No need to be crude,” John interjected.

Sherlock paid him no mind as he crossed the hall and turned the knob at the other bedroom door. It was stiff and he had to push it hard with his shoulder before the door would open. A tiny, dark room lay behind the door and Gabriel shied from it. There was a small bed, a lamp and a little dresser that Mrs. Hudson had brought up from the basement. The furniture had once belonged to her son but she had been keen to donate it when they’d heard of Gabriel’s existence the week before. He set the boy’s case down on the bed and turned. “This is your room.”

“Where do you sleep?” Gabriel asked.

“My room is downstairs.”

“Oh. I’ve never had my own room before.” The boy was obviously disturbed at the thought of sleeping alone. His eyes were everywhere and enormous. “At the convent, I had to stay in the room with the postulants.”

“Then this should be like Heaven,” John said, wiping dust from his sleeve. “A little paint and it will be perfect, right?” Gabriel shrugged.

“When someone addresses you, you answer them,” Sherlock said, wincing at his father’s voice once more issuing from his throat and from his own hypocrisy. Anyone who knew Sherlock was well aware that he often didn’t answer.

“I guess,” Gabriel replied.

“Come.” Sherlock rushed past them and made his way back downstairs, assuming they would follow. They emerged in the kitchen area, cluttered with what, to an outsider, would look like Dr. Frankenstein’s lab. Beakers, graduated cylinders, eye droppers and the like were strewn over every surface. Papers, notebooks, photographs and books were everywhere. “Rule two: don’t touch anything in this room with the possible exception of the refrigerator. If it looks interesting, it probably is and therefore no affair of children. The stove and range are also not for you. Keep away from them.” Gabriel nodded and followed Sherlock into the living room.

Mrs. Hudson and John stood there whispering and looking sadly at the boy. Sherlock knew what they were thinking. That he should have told Mycroft to find another home for Gabriel. That he would never be able to take care of a child. And why shouldn’t they think that? He wasn’t warm or playful. He often didn’t pay attention and his life was far too frantic and violent for a small child. That was most likely why Irene had never told him of the boy in the first place. According to her letter, she had left the boy at St. Christopher’s convent when he was ten days old, realizing that she was in no position to care for him. She stated that it would have been useless to send the boy to London, knowing that he wasn’t exactly ‘parenting material.’

“There’s a television, if you like that sort of thing. And more books than the Kensington Central Library. As long as you don’t move any of the books on my desk or on the table, do what you like.”

The small boy stared up at him with his round blue eyes. It was as if he were speaking some foreign language, but Sherlock didn’t see the point in talking to children as if they were adorable little morons. “Oh, and rule three: never interrupt me while I’m thinking. This includes talking, jumping on things, climbing on furniture and sometimes watching telly. Sometimes I don’t talk for days and other times I talk to myself.” He leaned over the armchair and pulled his violin down from where it balanced on the edge of the coffeetable. “Most important rule: Never. Ever. Never touch my violin. Trust me on this. Never. Understood?” They boy nodded, still giving Sherlock that fearful stare. “Well, I think that’s that, then.” He patted Gabriel awkwardly on the head. He rushed to the doorway and pulled on his coat.

“Are you leaving?” Gabriel asked, his voice small and quavering.

“I have an appointment,” he answered. “But don’t worry. Mrs. Hudson and John will be here. Have some cocoa. Eat some...biscuits.” He forced a smile as he wrapped his scarf around his neck. “Don’t wait up.”

And with that he was down the stairs and gone.

****

Gabriel sat down in the armchair closest to the fire, pulling his knees under his chin and hugging himself. If it was possible, he was more confused and frightened than he had been before. Though St. Christopher’s had been a cold, dreary place where he’d been largely ignored, he missed it tonight. He missed the garden behind the kitchen that always smelled of rosemary. He missed the peat fire in the dining hall. He missed the sounds of the church bells every morning at sunrise. Mostly he just missed the familiarity.

“What do you like to eat, Gabriel?” Mrs. Hudson asked. “I’ll fix whatever you like tonight, since it’s your first night here. It will be like a little celebration for you, dear!”

“I don’t know,” he replied with a shrug. It wasn’t a lie. Gabriel honestly didn’t know what he liked to eat. No one had ever asked him and everything the Sisters cooked tasted the same. Extravagant food was not Godly and therefore unnecessary. “I like apples.” It was all he could think of. There had been a tree in the corner of the garden that had the sweetest apples. Some mornings while he was outside, he’d pick up some of the fallen ones and eat it before anyone could catch him. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to take them and he didn’t want to be in trouble.

“Then apples you shall have, love,” Mrs. Hudson chirped before disappearing down the stairs again, leaving Gabriel alone with John.

“You’re in for a treat, my friend,” John said. “Mrs. Hudson is an excellent cook. Sherlock’s not much for eating but even he can’t resist when she decides to cook.”

“Is she your maid?”

John laughed. “No. Most definitely not. She’s the landlady. You know, she owns the house. We rent the flat from her.”

“Oh.”

John looked as if he wanted to say more, but instead just grabbed the remote for the television and began flipping channels. Gabriel was silent, yet fascinated by the images flashing on the screen. Sure, he had seen telly before. The caretaker at the church had a tiny one in his little cabin on the grounds, but Gabriel had never seen one this big. Nor had he ever been allowed to watch too much. The convent didn’t have anything like that. The Mother Superior had a radio that she would sometimes bring into the common room, but that was it. She said that they shouldn’t concern themselves with outside entertainment. John stopped on a show where a tall, thin man with messy hair was driving a phone booth. There was lots of noise and lights and Gabriel squinted against the oppressive action. He whimpered softly and John turned to look at him.

“Don’t you like Doctor Who?” John asked.

“It’s kind of loud,” he replied.

John smiled. “It can be, yeah.” He turned the volume down and Gabriel relaxed a little, his eyes glued to the screen. He became so engrossed in the story, that he didn’t notice when Mrs. Hudson returned from her flat with a tray full of food. The smell was heavenly. A sweet, spicy smell that made Gabriel’s mouth water.

“All right, dears. I cooked, you set the table!”

John immediately crossed the room and began clearing the mess of experiments off the tabletop. Gabriel continued to sit, paying them little mind until John cleared his throat. “Gabriel, would you mind helping us?” The little boy nodded, sliding off the chair and going into the kitchen. “We’ll need four forks and four napkins,” John instructed, opening the drawer and showing him where they were. “Put one of each at every place.” Gabriel very carefully set the table with utensils as John followed behind with plates and cups.

“Don’t we need another?” Gabriel asked.

John and Mrs. Hudson chuckled. “Sherlock won’t be back in time to eat, most likely. We’ll just leave some leftovers in the fridge for him.”

“Why don’t he eat?”

John smiled. “We’re not sure, but we think he _doesn’t_ eat because he’s an alien.” When the boy’s eyes went wide with alarm, both adults laughed again. “I’m just kidding, Gabriel. He just gets busy.”

“Oh.” Gabriel’s eyes fell and he sat down in the chair closest and slumped over the table.

“Elbows, dear,” Mrs. Hudson corrected, patting him on the arm until he sat up. She began fixing his plate with chicken and vegetables. He watched, examining each dish as it was plated up for him. “You said you liked apples, so I’ve made cinnamon ones. But they’re awfully sweet, so you should eat the rest of your food first.”

Once everyone was seated and plates were piled with food, they began to eat. Mrs. Hudson and John began to chatter about their day. It seemed that they were trying to act as if nothing out of the ordinary was going on. Gabriel looked at the food with trepidation, pushing it around with his fork and examining each component. It was not like the food at the convent. Everything there was bland and always the same color. He stabbed his meat with the fork and tried to pull off a bit. It didn’t work very well and after a bit of a struggle, he began pulling it apart with this fingers and shoving the bites into his mouth.

“Oh… let me help you with that, mate,” John said, shifting the boy’s plate toward him and using his knife to cut it apart. Gabriel watched him, wondering why he was going to the trouble. He didn’t mind using his hands. When John was finished and pushed his plate back toward him, Gabriel continued poking around at the bites.

“Do you like it, dear?”

Gabriel shrugged, not really knowing what to say. It had an interesting flavor, but the seasoning was more than he was used to. He didn’t want to hurt Mrs. Hudson’s feelings, but he wasn’t sure what they wanted him to say. It was all very confusing. “I’m done,” he said finally.

“Gabriel, you’ve hardly eaten anything,” John commented. “Mrs. Hudson made all this food for you. And cinnamon apples…”

“I’m not hungry,” he said. “Can I go up to my room?”

John and Mrs. Hudson looked at one another, exchanging puzzled glances. “Uhm… yeah…” John answered. “We’ll just save it for you.”

“Thank you,” Gabriel replied, pushing back from the table.

He went up to his room, carefully stomping up the uneven stairs. He was glad to be away from everyone. Not that John and Mrs. Hudson weren’t kind. Both had done everything in their power to make him feel welcome, but he couldn’t help still being terrified. He opened the door on the dingy little room that had been deemed his own and began to tremble, realizing how dark it was. In the convent, there had always been a candle or lamp burning in the rooms, but it was perilously dark upstairs in 221B. He looked back over his shoulder, considering calling for John to come and turn on the light. Of course then, he’d have to talk to him and he didn’t want to be a bother or seem like a baby. Gabriel was only five, but he’d never really been allowed to be a child. He was wise, too wise, even. He stepped into the room, his heart pounding in his chest. He pawed at the doorframe, hoping that the light switch was right there. He had to stand on the tips of his toes, but finally he found it.

When the room was illuminated, it wasn’t any less daunting. The tiny little bed that had been made up for him looked sterile. The room was chilly, smelling of dust and mold. He wondered if this room would ever seem like his own. At St Christopher’s, he’d had a small bed and a locker, like the young postulants. It wasn’t much, but at least when he’d curled up on the little bed, he’d felt that this one place, this tiny island, was his own. Here he had this whole room, but he felt like he wasn’t supposed to touch anything. He knew that Sherlock, the man who was supposed to be his father, only allowed him to stay because he had to. Gabriel might live in his house, but it would never be his home.

He went to the window and stared out. The light outside had faded and a light rain had begun to fall, wetting the street below. Cars and people still bustled about, clutching raincoats and umbrellas. It was so busy. Gabriel wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to it. There was just too much. Thoughts and emotions rushed around in his head all the time and he couldn’t slow them down and now he was expected to live in a place where people swarmed like bees all the time. Would he be able to learn to block them out? Would he ever be able to sleep? Would Sherlock make him go to school like the kids he’d seen in the schoolyard down the road sometimes? If he cried, would it make him angry? If he was bad would this new father beat him? What if he forgot all his new rules? The questions and uncertainty swirled faster and faster until Gabriel was pulling at his hair once more. He threw himself on to the bed and began to weep quietly. He buried his face in the pillow, not wanting anyone to hear, and cried until his eyes were burning and the skin on his cheeks felt tight.

****

John quickly helped Mrs. Hudson clear the table and wrap up the leftovers for Sherlock and Gabriel. “You know, I’m not sure this was the best idea Mycroft ever had.”

“What do you mean, dear?”

“I mean, do you think Sherlock is up for this? I know that it’s the law. Once they learned of the boy’s existence, they had to at least give Sherlock the option of taking him in. After all, he is his father, but Sherlock can barely take care of himself.”

“You might be surprised. Sherlock’s always been a little odd, but underneath he’s really very kind. He puts on a good show of being an uncaring machine, but you and I both know that he’s not really like that. Once you’re his, once he takes you in, he’ll move Heaven and Earth to protect you.” She raised her eyebrow at John, offering a knowing glance. “You and I know that better than anyone.”

“It’s the getting him to take Gabriel in that worries me.”

“Oh pish-posh… he already has. Did you look at the child? There’s no denying that he’s Sherlock’s. I don’t particularly like the idea of him having a child with that harlot, Irene Adler, but it’s obvious that’s what happened.”

“But why wouldn’t she tell him about it before?” John sighed. “You saw Sherlock’s face when Mycroft told him the other night—he was shocked. She kept the secret for five years? Why?”

“Would you want to tell Sherlock a thing like that?”

John thought about it for a moment. He didn’t even want to tell Sherlock when he broke a plate. “Point taken.”

“Obviously she didn’t think that either of them were capable of taking care of poor little Gabriel, so she left him at that convent. Now that she’s gone, Gabriel is all that’s left of her and despite our misgivings about her, Miss Adler was his one great love. Aside from you, anyway.”

“What?” John’s voice climbed an octave. Surely Mrs. Hudson didn’t still believe they were a couple.

“Don’t be silly, John. Sherlock does love you. Probably more than anyone else. It’s not anything… you know… _sexual_. You accept him for all that he is, both good and bad. You’ve taught him so much, John. And that little boy up there is the exam.” She winked and embraced John, taking her tray of empty dishes from him and going back downstairs.

John started toward the television, prepared to settle in for a quiet night. Perhaps he’d make himself a cup of tea. Before he could put the kettle on, he heard a small sound coming from upstairs. He paused, holding his breath to see if he heard it again. Surely if Mrs. Hudson had fallen on the front stairs, she’d have made a bigger noise. Another whimper sounded and John realized it was coming from upstairs. “Gabriel?” he called, starting up the steps.

The boy hadn’t bothered to close his door and when John reached the top of the stairs, he could see him lying on his bed crying. “Gabriel? Are you all right?” The little boy rolled over and John could see that his eyes were swollen and red from crying. “What’s the matter, mate?”

“Nothing,” Gabriel replied.

“I don’t think I believe that,” John said, sitting down on the end of the bed. The boy sat up and rubbed his eyes on the dirty sleeve of his shirt. “Why are you crying, Gabriel?”

“I don’t like it here!” the boy spat. “Everything here is different! The food is different and the house is different and everything is too big and too loud! And…” His voice trembled as more tears bubbled over his cheeks and ran down. “You and Mrs. Hudson are only nice to me because you have to be! And Sherlock hates me!” He covered his face and cried harder. John scooted closer to the little boy and, not knowing what else to do, put his arms around Gabriel’s small frame and rocked him gently. The boy tensed, becoming like a statue in John’s arms.

“Shush… I know it’s different. It will get better, you know. And Mrs. Hudson and I are nice to you because we like you.”

“No you don’t! The tall man said you had to be nice to me!” He jerked away from John, not wanting to be touched.

“No, Mycroft said we had to let you live here, not that we had to be nice. We only want to be your friend, Gabriel. Sherlock too.”

At the mention of his father’s name, Gabriel’s wails got louder. “No he doesn’t! He hates me! Why else would he let my mom leave?”

John put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Is that what you think happened? If Sherlock had known about you, he’d never have let that happen. He might be many things, but irresponsible isn’t one of them. Well, not about important things anyway. You just have to give him a chance, Gabe. This is brand new for him too.”

Gabriel sniffled. “Then why isn’t he here now?”

“Well, Sherlock has to think about things sometimes. It’s just how he is. And he needs to be alone to do that. He’ll be back soon. I promise everything will be fine.” John hugged the little boy again and this time, Gabe let him.


	3. Understanding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock eats all the apples.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do hope you're enjoying my little piece of distraction! As always, Gabriel is my only contribution to the cast of characters.

There is a God and He is merciful, Sherlock thought as he crept up the stairs and into the flat. All was dark, save for the flicker of the television. John must have forgotten and left it on when he went to bed. “Jesus, is this all they ever show on telly anymore,” he growled, fumbling for the remote and quickly extinguishing the Doctor Who marathon. He pulled his scarf and coat off, throwing them carelessly across his chair. The events of the day played out in his head and he pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to slow the whirlwind of thoughts that were threatening to drive him mad. He had told everyone that he had an appointment with a client, but that wasn’t true. He’d been walking around London for the last couple of hours. Just walking, hoping that the crisp autumn air would clear his mind and the solution to this new puzzle would present itself.

He had a child. Him… Sherlock Holmes, had a child. The concept didn’t make any sense. He’d spent his entire life avoiding romantic entanglements and the one time… the _one_ time he let his guard down… this happened. It was supposed to be a secret. A one time thing that neither of them would ever have to think about again. It was just after the incident in Karachi. Sherlock had helped her find a tiny little flat in a town just south of Florence where he knew she’d be safe. There was something intensely romantic about the Italian countryside and even he couldn’t deny it. A late night dinner and two bottles of wine later, he’d succumbed to her advances. After all, despite everyone’s imaginings, Sherlock was indeed just a man. The next day he’d been back on a plane bound for London, prepared to completely forget all about that night. And it would have worked if it wasn’t for this… accident.

Sherlock walked over to the fridge and peered inside. Little dishes of leftovers were piled inside and he poked at them curiously. Obviously Mrs. Hudson had felt generous and cooked dinner. John could never have accomplished this. He took the little plastic container full of baked apples and pulled the top off. The spicy, sugary scent made his stomach growl. Plucking a fork from the dish drainer, he sat down at the table and began working his way through the apples. He smiled, remembering how this had always been his favorite as a little boy. It was the only thing his poor mother could make. He’d nearly eaten the entire bowl when he heard the last step on the back stairs groan. He looked up, expecting to see John, but instead seeing the small boy staring at him with those enormous blue eyes.

“Hello, Gabriel,” he said. “It’s late. Why aren’t you in bed?”

“I couldn’t go to sleep,” the boy replied.

Sherlock shrugged. “Sleep is overrated for adults, but it’s my understanding that children need it.”

Gabriel climbed into the chair opposite his father, getting up on his knees to make himself taller. “You ate all the apples.” Sherlock looked down at the container and swallowed, feeling guilty. “Mrs. Hudson made them for me.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay. I wasn’t really hungry anyway.” Gabriel leaned forward and took Sherlock’s phone in his pudgy little hand. “What’s this?”

“It’s my mobile phone.”

“Oh,” the little boy replied, turning the device over in his hands and examining all the parts. “I’ve never seen one up close.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. How could anyone, even a five year old, have never seen a mobile before. “I see. Well don’t drop it. They’re expensive.”

“We didn’t have a lot at St. Christopher’s. Just regular stuff. The sisters always said that we didn’t need things like phones and televisions. Sometimes the new postulants would sneak their things in, but the Mother Superior always found out.”

“Were there any other children there?” Sherlock had a million questions for the small boy. Anything to figure him out.

“No. Just me. There was a school down the road and I saw those kids sometimes, but I wasn’t allowed to play with them.”

“Didn’t you go to school there?”

“No. I never been to school. The sisters said all I needed to learn was the Bible and how to count.”

“I see.” Sherlock rose from the table and filled the electric kettle on the counter with water. “So what did you do there?”

“Usually I just helped in the garden. Mostly they just left me alone.” Sherlock nodded and rummaged around for a teacup in the dish drainer. He was familiar with that approach. As a child, most adults had simply left him alone. It was easier than trying to relate to the hyperactive, brooding boy he’d been. He wasn’t sweet and had learned from an early age that affection was not going to be reciprocated. His father thought it would make him weak. Sherlock had also been a sickly little boy and his father believed that the only cure was to toughen him up. And once his parents separated, his mother retreated so far inside herself that Sherlock and Mycroft may as well have not even existed. They’d both been sent to boarding school by their father, but Sherlock never lasted long. His father, before his death, had always introduced his younger son by saying that he’d been thrown out of some of the most prestigious schools in Britain.

“Sometimes being left alone is a gift, Gabriel,” Sherlock added, pouring boiling water over his teabag. He started to ask the boy if he wanted a cup of tea, but then thought better of it. Children don’t drink tea. What do they drink, he wondered. A-ha! “Milk? Would you like a cup of milk, Gabriel? It might help you sleep.” The boy shrugged and Sherlock sighed. “Don’t shrug. Shrugging isn’t an answer.”

“Yes, please.”

Sherlock nodded and went to the fridge, pouring Gabriel a cup and adding a little to his tea. He set the cup in front of the little boy and sat down with his own cup. He thought he should say something, but nothing was coming to mind. The boy just kept staring. Only children and cats had such piercing stares. Perhaps that was why Sherlock disliked both so intensely. For someone who could deduce the deepest secrets of someone’s heart, Sherlock was terrified of being transparent.

“What was my mother like?”

Sherlock coughed, nearly choking on his tea. “Pardon?”

“My mother. Who was she?”

“Uhm… well…” He could feel himself blushing. He hadn’t thought of Irene much in the last several years. Did he really know her at all? Of course the boy was curious, but he wasn’t sure he had any answers. “She was… attractive, clever… a little reckless.”

“Was she nice?”

Sherlock thought about this a moment. Nice wasn’t exactly a word he’d use to describe her. “I suppose she was nice.”

“D-Do you think she would have… liked me?” The boy stammered over his words. It was obvious that this was a question that had been praying heavily on his mind.

“Of course she would,” Sherlock answered. “Given different circumstances, she would have adored you…”

“Then why did she leave me?”

“I don’t know, Gabriel. Probably she thought that she couldn’t take care of you. Your mother was famous for getting herself into trouble. She didn’t want to put you in the middle of that.”

“Is my mother dead? Is that why I’m here?”

Sherlock’s heart clenched in his chest. He _was_ an intelligent thing, after all. Despite their cautions to keep that little tidbit from him, Gabriel had picked up on it easily. And what could Sherlock do but be truthful? “Yes. There was an explosion. A gas leak at her house and she was killed.”

“Oh.”

“She left behind a letter that told about you and then you were sent here.” Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the time on his watch. It was nearly 2 in the morning. “Shit, Gabriel… we should get you into bed. It’s late.” He rose from the table, setting his teacup in the sink.

“Please don’t make me go to bed up there,” Gabriel said, his voice quavering.

“Why not? Isn’t your room all right?”

“It’s cold and scary.”

“There’s nothing to be afraid of. It just isn’t what you’re used to. Finish your milk.” Gabriel took the last sip and handed the cup to Sherlock who deposited it in the sink. “Come on,” he said, beckoning Gabriel to follow him. The boy hesitated at first but when Sherlock turned with his eyebrow cocked and beckoned again, he figured he’d better follow.

They marched up the stairs, Gabriel lagging behind like a man climbing toward the gallows. As they passed John’s room, they could hear him snoring lightly. Sherlock put a finger to his lips to indicate that they should be quiet in the hallway. He ushered the little boy into the spare room and followed him inside. “Do you have pajamas?” The little boy shook his head and Sherlock opened the small knapsack he’d carried up hours before. Inside was a selection of oversized, threadbare shirts and pants, much like what Gabriel was already wearing. He shoved everything back into the bag and dropped it back down on the floor. Looking around, he remembered that there were some of his old clothes stored in a box in the top of the closet. He pulled the box down and rummaged through until he found one of his old university t-shirts. “Here,” he said, handing the shirt to Gabriel. “You can wear this to sleep in until we can buy you some new clothes. It’s going to be a bit big, but it’s just for sleeping.” He replaced the box of clothes and shut the closet door. “Good night, Gabriel.”

“Wait!” The boy rushed to Sherlock, blocking his path to the door. “Where are you going?”

“To sleep in my bed downstairs,” Sherlock answered. “Obviously.”

“Please don’t leave me here by myself.” Gabriel said, his voice trembling on the edge of tears. “I’m scared.”

Sherlock sighed. This wasn’t his area. When people cried, it made him very uncomfortable. Intellectually, he knew that this child belonged to him and that he was supposed to comfort him, but he had no idea how that might be accomplished. He didn’t want to be harsh, but he feared that anything he said would come across that way. “All right, Gabriel. Change your clothes and I’ll come back to… tuck you in. Okay?”

He turned his back and left the boy to change. It didn’t sound like a bad idea, actually. He made his way into his own room and dug out his own pajamas from the dresser. In a moment’s time he’d discarded his trimly cut suit and put on a loose and mismatched set of pajamas. He almost forgot about Gabriel upstairs and started to climb into bed, but then he heard the small boy padding down the stairs. He met him at the bottom of the stairs. “Aren’t you coming back?” Gabriel asked. The t-shirt hung almost to the boy’s ankles and the sleeves which were short on Sherlock nearly covered the boy’s hands. He almost laughed in spite of himself.

“I said I was. Up you get,” Sherlock said, pointing up the steps. The boy scampered up, Sherlock right behind, taking the stairs two at a time. Gabriel climbed up onto the bed and allowed Sherlock to pull the covers around him. “There you are. Good night.”

“Can’t you stay for a while?”

“You need to go to sleep, Gabriel. You’ve had a long day. We both have.”

“Please,” Gabriel pleaded. He scrambled over to the other side of the bed and reached down, picking up his knapsack. He searched around inside until he found an old, tattered book that had been shoved down into the depths. He handed it to Sherlock and slid down under the covers again. “Read.” Gabriel commanded.

Sherlock opened the book. It was an ancient book of fairy tales. The cover was torn and the pages were riddled with mold. Evidently he had found this book at the convent and kept it carefully hidden. “You should read it to me,” Sherlock remarked.

“I don’t know how.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows were knitted in an expression of confusion. “What do you mean, you don’t know how?”

“I don’t know how to read.” The little boy’s voice began to tremble again and his eyes glistened with tears. He was embarrassed by his illiteracy and it made Sherlock angry to think that no one had bothered to help his child. “I just always looked at the pictures and made up the stories.”

“Then I suppose that will have to be on the list of things to fix.” He sat down on the side of the bed and leaned back against the headboard. To his surprise, the little boy snuggled into his side and put his head on Sherlock’s arm. He yawned and mumbled something about a dragon. Sherlock flipped through the pages until he found an illustration of a red dragon lying atop a mountain of treasure.

“That’s the one!” Gabriel exclaimed, pointing at the picture. “Read that one. I’ve always wanted to know what the real story said.”

Sherlock nodded and began to read. “Once upon a time…” His lilting baritone, smooth and even acted as a lullaby, slowly relaxing Gabriel until his eyes grew heavy.

His small form curled closer and finally Sherlock lifted his arm and let the boy curl into the crook of it. He lay his head on his father’s chest and after several minutes, before sleep overtook him, he had a question burning on his lips. “Sherlock?”

“Yes, Gabriel?”

“What am I supposed to call you?”

“Whatever you want, I suppose.” Sherlock yawned and closed the book, setting it down on the floor beside the bed.

“Good.” Gabriel yawned one last time and then gave in to Morpheus’s embrace. “Good night, Dad,” he murmured.


	4. Bathing Beauty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Gabriel won't take a bath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A slow migration, but it's getting there. BTW- half of this story was written BEFORE S3 aired, so it is now a bit AU. Oopsie!

“You can’t go anyplace until you’ve had a bath, Gabriel!”

John Watson opened his eyes, squinting at the light coming in from the window. He could hear voices downstairs and they didn’t sound happy. Pulling on a t-shirt, he followed the voices until he found Sherlock and Gabriel in a standoff in front of the bathroom. Both had their arms crossed over their chests and stared at the other defiantly. They looked like carbon copies, one big, one small. “What’s going on?” John asked.

“Ah, John. Please tell the child that bathing is necessary for being healthy.”

John looked at the little boy. His hair was a mess with stringy curls that stood out all over and the dishevelment was highlighted by the enormous t-shirt draped over him. Gabriel’s lip was poked out in a pout and it was obvious from his red cheeks and puffy eyes that he’d been crying. Apparently this battle of wills had been going on for quite some time. “Don’t want to take a bath, mate?”

“No!” Gabriel shouted, stomping his tiny foot. “I won’t take a bath and you can’t make me!” He pointed at Sherlock with an accusing finger.

“I think you’ve underestimated me, Gabriel,” Sherlock replied. “Or mistaken my restraint for weakness.” John could hear the terse quality to his friend’s voice. Sherlock was very nearly to the point of rage.

“Well perhaps you can just have a quick wash in the sink?” John offered, stepping toward Sherlock to lay a calming hand on his arm.

“No. The child needs a proper bath. His hair is a rat’s nest and there’s dirt under his fingernails. He’s getting in the bath!”

“No I’m not!” John almost laughed. Apparently being stubborn was a genetic trait and Gabriel had it in spades.

“Yes. You. Are.” Sherlock growled through clenched teeth. Gabriel didn’t reply but turned his nose up. Suddenly, Sherlock darted toward the boy, grabbing him up and tossing him over a shoulder. Gabriel began to scream and kick, shrieking that Sherlock was trying to kill him.

“Sherlock, do you think this is a good…”

“Shut up, John,” he growled, barreling through the bathroom door and slamming it behind him. From behind the door, the good doctor could hear a warzone erupt. There was shouting, tumbling around, heavy thuds and splashing. For a moment he thought that perhaps he should interfere, but the fierce look in his friend’s eye told him that he should stay out of it. If he valued his life, that is.

John walked away, deciding that his assistance was no longer required. He flipped the switch on the kettle and began rummaging around in the cabinets for a cup. They were really going to have to clean the place up if there was going to be a child living there. Kids always managed to get into everything and if they weren’t careful, Gabriel would be taking a jar full of eyeballs to school. Since he was off today, he guessed he’d start doing some of that. Otherwise it wouldn’t get done. John knew that Sherlock wasn’t about to voluntarily clean up anything. Just as he finished preparing his cup of Breakfast Tea, the bathroom door burst open with enough impetus to drive the doorknob into the adjacent wall as it bounced against the plaster. A half-naked Gabriel ran through the kitchen and over the armchair. Sherlock was close behind, dripping wet in his clothes, shoving John out of the way in an attempt to corner the boy. “Gabriel!” he shouted. The boy paid no mind, taking to the back stairs and racing toward his bedroom. John could only look on in disbelief, his lips still poised over the lip of his teacup. The walls shuddered as Gabriel’s bedroom door slammed. John heard the lock click, immediately followed by Sherlock’s banging. He’d lost it.

“Gabriel! Open the door!” _Bam bam bam!_ “Open the bloody door!” Sherlock was practically screaming at this point, his temper having finally gotten the best of him. John had seen it only one other time before and it wasn’t pretty. Both father and son had wills of steel and it was obvious no one was going to win this particular battle. Should he call Mrs. Hudson? Or perhaps Anthea? After all, the boy had spent a day in her keeping as they traveled back to London. Maybe she had some ideas.

“No! I’m not taking a bath!” Gabriel’s weepy voice shouted back.

“Just open the door!”

“No… you’re yelling at me!”

“I’ll stop if you open the door,” Sherlock sighed. From where John stood at the bottom of the stairs, he could see Sherlock, now crouched down and resting his head on the wooden frame.

“No you won’t! You’ll hit me!”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Gabriel…”

“Go away!”

Sherlock gave another enraged growl and slapped the door with the flat of his hand once more. He got to his feet and rushed down the stairs, bowling over John in the process.

“Sherlock!” John exclaimed.

“I’m going to Bart’s!” he shouted over his shoulder as he stomped down the stairs and out the front door.

****

Sherlock bent over the microscope, changing the slides a little too vigorously and slamming instruments down on the desk in frustration. How someone’s life could become so completely unrecognizable in less than twenty-four hours was beyond him. What the Hell had he been thinking, telling Mycroft that he could bring that… _thing_ into his life? He had no idea what he was doing and this was not a familiar sensation for Sherlock. He was self-assured and decisive in all situations. He’d always prided himself on being able to keep a handle on his emotions. Sherlock Holmes was a man in complete control of himself, but this morning he’d lost his temper. To the point where he was indeed afraid of what he might do. That was not appropriate parental behavior.

“Hi, Sherlock!” Molly Hooper’s cheery voice startled him and the glass slide in his hand slipped through his fingers and bounced twice on the floor before shattering. “Oops… you ok?”

“Yes,” he replied curtly, crouching down to pick up the pieces of glass.

“Oh… let me help you,” she said.

“No. I’ve got it…”

“You can’t use your hands! You’ll…”

“Ouch! Goddamnit!” Sherlock shouted, throwing the remnants of the slide aside and instinctively bringing his hand to his mouth. Blood poured from a small, yet deep cut, dotting his sleeve and the floor with bright red drops. He sat down on the tile floor, using his uninjured fist to punch the cabinet door behind him with enough force to knock the paint off.

“Let me see it,” Molly said, taking his hand and examining it.

“It’s nothing,” he sighed, trying to pull away, but she held firm. “Just a flesh wound.”

“It’s pretty deep, Sherlock. You’ll need a couple of stitches.”

“No. It’s fine. Just get me a plaster.”

Molly shook her head and stood up, keeping a hold of his hand so that he was forced to rise from the floor. “You’d bleed through in less than a minute. Come on, then.” Molly practically shoved him on to a stool and went to get a tray of supplies. “Hold it over your head so that the blood runs away from the wound.”

“I know,” he sighed. “I have a working knowledge of physiology…”

“Yes, yes… I know, you’re a proper genius,” Molly interrupted, pushing aside the microscope and hopping up on the table in front of him. She reached behind her back and grabbed the arm of the halogen lamp and pointed it toward them, nearly blinding Sherlock in the process.

“Is all this really necessary?” he grumbled.

“Well… you could just bleed to death on the floor,” she answered. Ever since he’d enlisted Molly’s help a few years back, their relationship had changed from awkward to familiar. Sure, there were still times that she stammered and blushed whenever he spoke to her, but most of the time, their interactions were casual and light. He had to admit to gaining a bit more respect for her once she’d started telling him off on a regular basis. “Are you all right, Sherlock? You seem a bit… flustered today. It’s not like you.” She used an alcohol swab to clean the blood from the wound, leaning in and blowing on it lightly.

“I didn’t sleep much last night,” he replied.

“I would imagine not,” she said, tearing open a set of tweezers. “First night with a kid in the house.”

“The night wasn’t the problem. I don’t really sleep much anyway. But this morning… I don’t want to talk about it.” He gasped as she stabbed the point of the tweezers into the cut. “Ow… shit that hurt.”

“Sorry.” She smiled sheepishly and continued pulling tiny shards of glass out of his skin.

“Those aren’t the same instruments you use on dead people are they?”

A confused look crossed her features and she looked down at the tweezers and back at the supply cabinet. “Hmmm… God I hope not.” His eyes widened with alarm and Molly laughed. “Of course not, idiot.”

“Ha ha. Your wit is almost more than I can stand, Dr. Hooper.”

She grinned, checking that she’d gotten all of the glass. When she was finished, she swept another alcohol pad over the wound and closed Sherlock’s hand over it. “Put pressure on it.” He did as he was told while she prepared what she would need to stitch up his hand. “So what happened?”

“What makes you think something happened?”

“Well, you’re never clumsy. And you seem a bit more peevish than usual, is all. You don’t have to talk about it, but it might help.” He glanced up and met her eyes. Molly smiled reassuringly and put her glasses on before bending over his hand once more.

“He won’t take a bath.”

“What?”

“Gabriel. He won’t take a bath. He needs new clothes and he’ll have to be sent to school, all of which require that he be clean. But he refuses. He looks like some homeless child.”

“Little boys often don’t want to take baths. My little brothers were the same.” She poked the needle through Sherlock’s skin and he seethed. “Sorry…”

“I tried to reason with him, but he was having none of it. I explained how there was really nothing to it and even asked what he did at the convent, but he became more agitated. Finally, I just decided to use brute force… that’s when all Hell broke loose.”

Molly tried to hide an amused smile. “I’m afraid you’ll have to define ‘hell’ for me.”

“Well he just went crazy! He ran around the flat, knocking things about, kicking and screaming. He splashed water all over me—“

“He had a tantrum.”

“Exactly.” Molly laughed, tying up the last stitch. “It isn’t funny!”

“Oh yes it is,” she replied, still giggling. “I can just imagine you chasing a five year old around the flat, leaping over sofas.”

“Thank you, Molly… you’ve been so helpful.” He sighed heavily, pulling his sore hand away from her and applying the bandage himself.

“I’m sorry,” she said, stifling her giggles with a cough. “You’re right. It isn’t funny. What are you going to do?”

“I have no idea. All I do know is that I’m a bit afraid to broach the subject again. I nearly lost it, Molly. I wanted to hit him. I resorted to just shouting at him. But I’ll have to do something. Trust me, I fell asleep with the kid last night and by this morning… let’s just say he needs a bath.”

“Perhaps you’re not thinking about this logically, Sherlock.”

“Me? Not logical?”

“Yes you. Look, he’s five. He lashed out and had a tantrum. Children don’t just do that. Children act out because they’re afraid, generally. Maybe he had a fright at the convent. You’ll have to get him to tell you what that was and then maybe you can convince him that the same thing won’t happen again.”

“You think he’s afraid of water?” The thought seemed ridiculous. After all, what was there to be afraid of? He shot Molly his patented look of amused derision.

“Well you don’t seem to have any better ideas. I’d be willing to wager that Gabriel is afraid of the water and once he overcomes that fear, you won’t have any more trouble getting him in the bath.” She smiled. “Fifty pounds?”

****

Amazingly enough, it wasn’t that difficult to convince John to help with his plan. Probably the part about spending the rest of his life living in a confined space with a smelly kid or a screamy kid had helped to persuade him. A call to St. Christopher’s had confirmed Molly’s suspicions that Gabriel had an almost pathological fear of the water. Apparently, a few months previous while playing in the forest behind the convent, Gabriel had fallen over a tree root and rolled into the stream, nearly drowning in the cold water. Luckily, the caretaker had heard his cries and managed to pull him out just in time. The small boy contracted pneumonia from the incident and from then on the sisters had allowed him to take sponge baths to avoid his fits. Sometimes they could manage to hold him down and scrub his hair in the kitchen sink, but it wasn’t worth the aggravation to make the child take a proper bath each night.  

It was pretty chilly as Sherlock stood out on the street in front of the Aquatic Center, waiting for John and Gabriel. What could be taking them so long? It should only be short stroll around the corner. Finally, they emerged from the side street hand in hand. He could hear Gabriel laughing and it was a bit of a relief. When he’d stormed out this morning, Sherlock had feared that his anger would scar the child, but all seemed to be well. “Hello!” he shouted to them with a wave. Gabriel caught sight of him and broke away from John to run down the street toward Sherlock.

“Hi, dad!” Gabriel chirped, slamming into Sherlock’s legs and wrapping his arms around him. The embrace caught him off guard and for a moment, he wasn’t sure how to respond. Most people were only marginally glad to see him when he came into a room, much less so excited that they embraced him vigorously.

“Hello… Gabriel…” he said, laying a hand on the little boy’s head. “Did you have a better day?”

Gabriel nodded. “John said I should say sorry for this morning.” Sherlock glanced at his friend who shrugged and offered a sheepish smile.

“Oh he did, did he?”

“Yeah. I’m not really sorry, though,” Gabriel said in a matter of fact tone. “I’m sorry that you were mad. And I’m sorry that I knocked over the towel rack, but I’m not sorry I didn’t want to take a bath.” Sherlock had to hide his face in the lapel of his coat to keep from laughing out loud. He had always hated when he was forced to apologize as a child. He rarely meant it and didn’t see the point in lying.

“Well, Gabriel. I’m sorry that I got angry with you and lost my temper. But I’m not sorry that I was insisting that you bathe. There. We’re even.” He offered Gabriel a smirk and steered him gently toward the doors of the Aquatic Center.

“What are we doing here?” Gabriel asked as they emerged into the foyer of the enormous gymnasium. There was hardly anyone around at this hour. Most people had already gone home in the early evening for dinner. Sherlock had chosen this time on purpose. If Gabriel had a massive meltdown, then it would be easier to control the situation without a lot of people around. But there weren’t going to be any tantrums this time. He and Molly had planned it all so well.

“I like to go for a swim every now and then,” John started. “Helps me relax. So I called Sherlock up and asked if he wanted to come along.”

“Swim?” Gabriel asked, the realization of what was going on slowly dawning on him. “I don’t like to swim,” he said, his voice sounding pitiful.

“Yeah, we figured,” Sherlock said. “But that’s ok. You don’t have to. You can just watch if you like.” He shrugged and swiped his membership card. John patted the little boy on the shoulder and directed him through the turnstile.

The pool was completely deserted when they walked in. Sherlock’s heart shuddered briefly in his chest, remembering the last time they’d been at this particular pool. But like with so many traumatic events in his life, he was able to shove them to the side in favor of the matter at hand. But he knew there would be nightmares later. “Stay here and don’t move,” Sherlock said, pointing to the bleachers. Gabriel did as he was told, staying as far back from the edge of the pool as possible as he walked toward the seating area.

Several minutes later, Sherlock and John emerged from the locker room. Both of them wore swimsuits and chased one another rambunctiously toward the pool. Sherlock pushed John who fell into the water comically, shouting obscenities toward his friend. “Fucking nutter! You could have killed me!” John shrieked.

Sherlock laughed. “Don’t be such a big girl’s blouse.” With that, he dove off the side of the pool with a bit more grace than John and began swimming a lap around the pool. The good doctor joined him and soon they were racing back and forth, pausing every so often to try and drown one another.

“What are you doing?” Gabriel asked, staring at the two of them with an almost worried puzzlement.

“Just having a laugh,” John replied, splashing water playfully toward where the little boy sat by the pool. “Have you never been swimming with your mates before?”

“I don’t really like to swim,” Gabriel said.

“Ever try it?” Sherlock asked.

“Not on purpose,” Gabriel replied darkly.

“Well if you want to,” John began, “I think we have an extra cozzy.”

“No thank you,” the little boy sighed, resting his elbows on his knees.

“Suit yourself.” John pushed off the side and swam off to catch Sherlock. “Do you think this is going to work?” he asked once they were out of earshot.

“I don’t know,” Sherlock replied, “but I was out of ideas.” He dunked his head under the water and came back up, pushing his hair out of his face. “We’ll swim for another twenty minutes and if he doesn’t take the bait, we’ll just go.”

Sherlock had perfect form as he strode through the surface of the water, stretching his extremities in an elegant line. Swimming was one of the many sports that Sherlock’s father had insisted he do on his mission to make him a man. Swimming, boxing, fencing—you name it, Sherlock had been subjected to learning it. And like everything Sherlock learned, he was an expert. John, on the other hand, swam like a soldier, fast and forceful like he was storming the beach.

Another ten minutes passed before Gabriel stood up and walked over to the side of the pool, taking his shoes off and sitting down. “Is the water cold?” Gabriel asked Sherlock when he came up for air.

“Not at all. The pool is heated so that you can swim all year. You’d like it if you came in.” He playfully splashed water on the boy’s ankles. The boy squealed and laughed, finally dunking his feet into the water.

“I don’t know how to swim,” Gabriel whispered. His cheeks were pink with embarrassment and his hands were shoved far into his pockets.

“You’re only five,” Sherlock said. “I didn’t know either until someone taught me.”

“Do you think I’d be able to learn?”

“Of course. Any idiot can learn to swim.” At that precise moment, John started out of the pool from the opposite side, slipped on the ladder and fell back into the water. “See.”

“That was completely intentional!” John shouted, spitting water and sputtering.

Gabriel laughed and kicked water at Sherlock. “So if I get in there… you won’t let me drown?”

“I promise.”

****

When Sherlock and Gabriel returned from the locker room, it wasn’t as John had expected. He’d thought that surely the child would have both arms through one hole of his shirt and the swim trunks in tatters. But no, Sherlock and Gabriel looked amicable as they strode across the floor. It was odd to see them actually looking like a father with his son rather than two people in a mess. Gabriel held Sherlock’s hand tightly, his big blue eyes widely surveying the room. There was clear apprehension but no panic. That was good. John wondered how long it would last.

“All right, Gabe?” John asked, brushing a towel through his own hair and sitting down on the side of the pool.

“Yeah,” the boy replied, looking down at the blue water that sparkled from the fluorescents overhead. “I’m not sure,” he said with a sigh, looking up at Sherlock.

“You’re going to be fine. Don’t look so scared. No one’s going to push you in. And if you hate it, we can go. That was the deal.”

“And you don’t have to swim on your own, Gabe,” John interjected. “We’ll help you.” The boy nodded and allowed himself to be led toward the wide steps that led down into the pool. Sherlock stepped in and waited for the boy to step in after him. With a shuddering hand, Gabriel grasped the rail and started to step down into the warm water. As soon as his toes touched the water, he decided against it, pulling back with a whimper.

“I don’t think I can.”

“Of course you can,” Sherlock replied. John raised his eyebrow at his friend, recognizing by his tone of voice that Sherlock was about to become impatient. “Oh…” Sherlock mused, an idea forming in his head. “Come here,” he said, beckoning Gabriel forward then reaching out and pulling him into his side. The little boy cringed, not wanting his feet to touch the water, but he soon realized that Sherlock had a firm hold around his little body. Gabe relaxed a little and let his father hoist him up on his narrow hip, using his height to keep the little boy above the surface, save for the tips of his toes.

“Don’t let go,” Gabriel whined, wrapping his arms tight around Sherlock’s neck.

“I’m not going to let go,” Sherlock replied, his voice growling at first but then remembering to be gentler. “I promise. Trust me.”

The boy nodded and allowed his father to sink down into the water with him. It took a matter of seconds before Gabriel was laughing and splashing in the water, delighting in the warmth. John jumped in behind them and Gabe held onto Sherlock’s shoulders as they raced from one end of the pool to the other. “That’s not fair. You have an extra rudder,” John complained.

The three of them exited the pool an hour later, soaking wet and utterly exhausted. Autumn nights were cold in London and Gabriel snuggled into Sherlock’s coat as they walked back to Baker Street. “That wasn’t too bad, I guess,” he murmured.

“Amazing. You didn’t die. Call the papers,” Sherlock replied sarcastically. John snorted. “After all, I have a reputation to protect. I can’t be drowning you in public just yet.” He winked at Gabriel and allowed the boy to lay his head on his shoulder.

“So if I can do that, then I should be able to take a bath huh?” Gabriel asked.

“You’re very perceptive.”

Gabriel sighed. “Okay.”

They walked a bit further, thankful that the lights in Mrs. Hudson’s parlor were visible at the end of the street. Gabriel was nearly asleep in Sherlock’s arms. “So… that’s good then. Another crisis averted,” John said. Sherlock nodded. “So why don’t you look nearly as proud of yourself as you normally do?”

Sherlock paused, looking up into the night sky. “I owe Molly Hooper fifty pounds.”


	5. Getting Rid of Undesireables

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Gabriel decides to take matters into his own hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so glad everyone's enjoying this story!! :)

Mycroft Holmes walked with steady purpose up the sidewalk toward 221B Baker Street. Though it was a brisk November day, the sun was shining and the air had that crisp, smoky scent that could be found nowhere else. It was one of those days that made you glad to be a Londoner. Mycroft had been away for a month in the bleakest part of the world and now that he was back, the noise and color acted as an intoxicant. That was the only explanation he could think of for actually wanting to go and see his little brother. That and what can only be described as a very odd rumor. Surely it was exaggeration on the part of his associate. Sherlock with a child? Forget the absurdity of the notion that his little brother might keep another human being alive, but how did the child get here? He wasn’t sure Sherlock had the necessary hormones involved to spread his genetic code. When he’d initially been contacted about the existence of the boy, he hadn’t had the time to go and see for himself.

He approached the familiar black door and rapped lightly with the end of his umbrella. Well, the house was still standing, that was good. Anthea had told him that the child was an absolute terror, which wasn’t surprising considering his parentage. Mycroft remembered how Sherlock had been as a child: willful, brooding and selfish. Why should his offspring be any different?

“Oh! Mycroft, how nice to see you!” Mrs. Hudson said cheerfully as she opened the door. “Was wondering how long it would take you to come ‘round. Come in!” Mycroft smiled politely and allowed her to usher him inside. “I suppose you’ll be here to see Sherlock. He’s here. I was just going up with a tray of biscuits. You know how he never eats. It’s not good for him.” She continued babbling as they walked up the stairs and Mycroft was only half listening. He kept waiting for the crashes and shouting, but there were none. As they reached the top of the stairs, he could hear music playing softly from the stereo. The scene before him was probably the strangest he’d ever seen at 221. For starters everything was clean. There were no beakers full of eyeballs, no bottles of formaldehyde on the countertop, no gory crime scene photos pinned to the wall. The flat looked practically normal. “Can I get you a cuppa, dear?” Mrs. Hudson asked Mycroft.

“Please,” he replied as she took his coat and umbrella. He continued into the lounge to find Sherlock sitting at his desk, three different books and a case file open in front of him. John was in his chair, the laptop in his lap as he tapped away and hummed with the stereo. Finally, a small boy lay on the floor between them, leaned over a large picture book. Mycroft cleared his throat to draw their attention. “Ahem…”

John was the first to respond. “Ah, Mycroft! Hello. Sherlock, look… its Mycroft.”

Sherlock shifted, looking over his shoulder and acknowledging his presence with a nod. “Checking up on me already?”

“Already?”

“Yes. From the looks of you I see that you’ve just arrived from the airport. Didn’t even stop at home first. To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“Well I had heard you’d been quite busy in the last month, so I thought I’d come over and see how you were.”

“As if you weren’t watching every millimeter of the place,” Sherlock grumbled.

The small boy got to his feet and ambled over to Sherlock, clutching his book. “What’s this word?” he asked, halfway climbing on to Sherlock’s lap. Mycroft was instantly taken aback by how much the child looked like his brother. Right down to the way his nose turned up in that way that could be sneering or playful. He was long and lean with a shock of coal black hair that refused to behave no matter how much it was brushed.

“Feathers,” Sherlock replied, pointing at the word. “Gabriel, this is my brother… and I suppose, your uncle, Mycroft.”

“Hi,” Gabriel said with a little wave.

“Hello, Gabriel. You seem to look well.”

“Why shouldn’t he look well?” Sherlock asked.

“I had prepared myself for the worst,” Mycroft replied. “Given that as a child you couldn’t even manage to keep a goldfish alive.”

“To be fair, goldfish can’t protest when they’re hungry,” John said, not looking up from his blog post.

Before he could respond, Mrs. Hudson was back with the tea, setting a tray down on the coffee table. Gabriel scrambled away from his father, rushing to the table and Mrs. Hudson’s biscuits. “Oh! Don’t be rude, dear,” Mrs. Hudson scolded gently, handing him his own teacup full of milk.

“Sorry,” he replied, taking a couple of biscuits and settling back to his place on the floor as everyone collected their teacups.

“Well, you’re all just a happy family, it seems,” Mycroft mused, stirring his tea. “I must admit that I had expected a warzone when I got here.”

Sherlock, who hadn’t moved from his desk, gave a snort. “Just because our childhood was chaos…” Mycroft nodded. Their home life as children had not been perfect by any means. There had always been fighting and strife, much of which Mycroft had tried to shield his little brother from, but it hadn’t always been possible. And then Sherlock had always been so erratic. He wouldn’t talk for days at a time and then out of the blue would have a screaming tantrum that no one could assuage.

Gabriel rose again, going to Sherlock and holding his book up. “Dad, what’s this word?”

Sherlock peered at the book and wrinkled his nose. “Gabriel, I’m not telling you that one. You can figure it out.”

“No I can’t… it’s too hard,” he whined.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You know your letters. Sound it out.” Gabriel sighed heavily, rolling his eyes and flopping back down on the floor.

The corner of Mycroft’s mouth twitched with a knowing smile. “I see so much of you in him, brother. Anthea told me that he looked like you, but it goes well beyond that. I almost suspect that you and Molly Hooper grew him in a Petrie dish.” John choked on his tea trying to conceal his laughter.

“I’m afraid his origins were much simpler than that,” Sherlock sighed.

“Oh yes… Miss Adler. I suppose I did underestimate you a bit on that front, little brother.” He took another sip of his tea. Sherlock suspected that he had been deliberately trying to humiliate him in Buckingham Palace all those years ago, but in truth, Mycroft just assumed that his brother was a sexless creature who would have no idea about women. It was a primal instinct, a function of the reptilian brain that a man like Sherlock would have no use of. Sex would have been, as he put it, _deleted_ long ago. “In case you were wondering, we’ve found no trace of her other than the letter addressed to you. But the house where she’d been living was completely destroyed.”

Sherlock shot Mycroft a murderous glare and jerked his head toward Gabriel, indicating that he shouldn’t talk about this in front of him.

“Sing!” Gabriel exclaimed. “I got it, Dad! I got the word!”

“Brilliant!” Sherlock exclaimed. “Now read the whole sentence.”

“I like to sing!” Gabriel chirped, jumping up to receive a big hug from Mrs. Hudson.

“That’s lovely, Gabriel dear!”

“Well done, mate,” John said, high-fiving the little boy. “You’ll be reading Gray’s Anatomy before you know it!”

Mycroft crossed to Sherlock’s desk. “I took the liberty of making a call to Hampstead. They can take Gabriel by the end of the month. He’ll need to take placement exams of course, but I’m sure…”

“No,” Sherlock replied curtly.

“What do you mean? He has to go to school, Sherlock. I’d think you of all people would be pleased. If for no other reason than to get him out of your hair during the day.”

Sherlock turned to look at Mycroft, his eyes narrow and set in that way that said his mind was made up. “That… prison that Irene left Gabriel in for the last five years didn’t see fit to even teach the child his alphabet or to write his own name. Do you think I’m going to send him to that posh bitch puppy mill to be humiliated?”

“They’ll teach him to read and write, Sherlock. Not to mention prepare him for acceptance in the best Preparatory and Senior Schools in Britain!”

Sherlock gasped, feigning giddy shock. “Oh do you really think so? Maybe he’ll even get into Hogwarts!” he exclaimed, sarcasm dripping from his tone. He rolled his eyes and shook his head, turning back to his desk.

“Don’t be ridiculous. How much do you think he can learn on his own?”

“He’s been here a month and already knows his letters, his numbers to one hundred and he can write his name. He’s already started reading. I’d call that progress,” John interrupted. “I mean, ordinarily I’d agree with you, Mycroft, but I think Sherlock’s right to let him catch up before he goes to school.”

“And who is doing all of this instruction?” Mycroft asked. “You?”

“I think he could do worse than a genius, a doctor and an experienced mother figure,” John replied.

“Next thing you know, you’ll all be taking him to the morgue and letting him dissect dead bodies,” Mycroft sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Will you at least let me send a tutor? To fill in the gaps, as it were?”

Sherlock waved him away, not really paying much attention. “Whatever you want, Mycroft.”

****

Gabriel stood still, letting his father pull the brush through his unruly locks, scrunching his face as Sherlock roughly pulled at the tangles. “But why do I have to have a babysitter? I’m not a baby.”

“Ms. Barrett isn’t a babysitter. She’s a teacher. Your Uncle Mycroft is insane and thinks you need a tutor.” Sherlock sighed, giving up on ever making Gabriel’s hair sit down. He shouldn’t be surprised. He had the same problem with his own. Sherlock had to admit that he was almost glad to have someone coming. In the month since Gabriel’s arrival, he hadn’t had much chance to work outside of the flat and he was going stir crazy. It was for this reason that he’d allowed Mycroft to send the teacher over for a couple of mornings a week to help Gabriel. Not that the boy really needed much help. Once he’d learned his letters and the sounds they made, his reading was blossoming at an almost alarming rate. And maths were coming on quickly, as all three of the other inhabitants never missed an opportunity to count with him or pose problems.

“I don’t want to stay here with somebody else. Why can’t I go with you?” he whined.

“Because Ms. Barrett is coming all the way here to see you. Because I’m going to a crime scene and that isn’t for little boys. And because there’s no one else to watch you today with Mrs. Hudson gone to her sister’s and John working.”

Gabriel crossed his arms over his chest, poking his lip out. “I don’t need anyone to watch me.”

Sherlock laughed. “Oh yes you do.” The week before, he’d gotten a little distracted during a case. He was skyping with an investigator in Kent when he heard a crash. While she was straightening up, Mrs. Hudson had put the chocolate biscuits on the top shelf of the cupboard and Gabriel decided to build an intricate ladder of kitchen chairs, books and cooking pots to reach it. He’d only reached the first “wrung” when the whole thing came crashing down. “You really do.”

“Well I don’t want her here!”

He leaned in. “Do you see anything on my face that might be construed as concern?” Sherlock grabbed a black jumper with a skull knitted across the chest and pulled it down over his son’s head. “I think you’ll be all right with an old maid schoolteacher for a couple of hours.”

Gabriel gave an exaggerated, pitiful sigh. “But Daddy… I’ll miss you.” He fluttered his eyelashes over those enormous blue eyes and even managed a tiny tear in the corner.

“Wow…” Sherlock started. “And the BAFTA goes to Gabriel Holmes for his performance in Laying it on Thick!” Before he could respond, there was a knock at the door downstairs.

Sherlock stood up to his full height and straightened his jacket. “That’s probably her. Put on your shoes and come down to meet her.”

“I have to wear shoes too?”

Sherlock glared.

“Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson bellowed. “Mrs. Barrett is here!” He could hear them clomping up the stairs and Sherlock met them in the lounge. The teacher was a stereotypical nanny type. At least sixty, round, glasses pushed forward on her nose in a way that defied gravity. Her smart gray skirt was littered with strands of silver cat hair. She carried an oversized purse, clutched in gnarled hands that spoke of arthritis and spinsterhood with their lack of jewelry. Her gray hair was pulled up in a tight bun that made her head look miniscule up next to her large body wrapped in yards of pink wool.

“Mr. Holmes,” the woman said, offering her hand. Her voice was deep and it startled Sherlock a bit, putting him in mind of this hideous movie that John watched a while back where a man dressed up like a nanny to be with his children. “Hyacinth Barrett. I was retained by a Mr. Mycroft Holmes to tutor a child here three days each week?”

“Yes, my brother insisted that my son Gabriel needed help.”

“Children raised by one parent often do. Especially when that one parent is a man. Men tend to be clueless about children, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Not remotely.”

Mrs. Barrett chuckled to herself. “Where is the child?”

Sherlock turned to call Gabriel, but he was already at the bottom of the stairs, peering out of the shadows with a reluctant stare. “Come, Gabriel,” he ordered, beckoning to his son. Gabriel did as he was told, hiding behind Sherlock, his eyes never leaving the stranger.

“Hello, little one. And who might you be?” Ms. Barrett asked, bending over to get on his level.

“Gabriel Holmes,” he answered, casting a look toward his father who nodded reassuringly.

She offered her hand, but Gabriel just stared, pulling closer to his father. “He’s not much for talking is he?”

“He has that most admirable of childish qualities. He’s quiet,” Sherlock answered. “He’s five years old. He knows the alphabet and can read and write a little.”

Mrs. Barrett gasped. “I wasn’t told he was that far behind! We have our work cut out for us then don’t we, Gabriel?”

“Far behind?” Sherlock asked. “It’s my understanding that most children are barely able to read and write their own names at his age.”

“Mr. Holmes, he should be writing sentences at this age! I’m afraid we have a lot of work to do. It’s good that you called me when you did!”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. There were many choice words for Mrs. Barrett building in his throat, but he’d promised that he would give this a go. He turned to Gabriel and knelt down to his level, straightening his jumper. “All right, then, Gabe. Be a good boy and listen to Mrs. Barrett.”

“Dad, I don’t like her,” Gabriel whispered. “She thinks I’m dumb.”

“Well we know that’s not true. Just remember what I’ve told you so many times—most people are idiots.”

“How long will you be gone?”

“I should be back around lunch. And John will definitely be back in time for her to leave.” Gabriel gave a final pout and Sherlock smirked, tousling his hair affectionately. “Buck up, Gabe.”

“No worries, Mr. Holmes. Gabriel and I will be just fine,” the teacher said, smiling and taking Gabriel’s hand. He tried to pull away but she held firm.

“Dad…” he whined, his voice trembling a little. Sherlock hesitated. For a moment he started to reconsider his position. For all his showboating, Mycroft didn’t know anything about children or what they needed. Maybe leaving Gabriel with a tutor wasn’t the best thing.

“Go on, Mr. Holmes. Better to cut the strings quickly, lest it grow to a full on tantrum.” She waved Sherlock down the stairs, practically pushing him.

****

Gabriel watched his father disappear down the stairs and out the door, closing it with a resounding slam. He looked up at the older woman and took in all of her features. Clearly, she was not a warm, grandmotherly type like Mrs. Hudson. This Barrett woman would most definitely not be baking biscuits or giving him his milk in a teacup so he could drink like the adults. “Well then, Gabriel. Let’s get started then, shall we?”

“I guess,” he replied, his voice barely a whisper.

She grunted in an amused yet annoyed sort of way. “You guess? Never guess, boy. You must know and always be sure of yourself.” She dragged him across the room and had him sit down at Sherlock’s desk.

“I shouldn’t sit here. This is my dad’s desk,” Gabriel said. “I’m not supposed to move anything.”

“Nevermind that. First, we shall start by finding out what you can do.” She began gathering up Sherlock’s files and books and shoving them onto an empty shelf before handing Gabriel a small primer book. “Open it to the tenth page and begin reading at the top.”

Gabriel stared down at the page, looking at the words that snaked across it. They were tiny and there were so many of them. And no pictures to help. The books his father or John brought home to him always had brightly colored pictures on every page. Even the anatomy book that Doctor Molly gave him had colorful illustrations that made it easy for him to understand. This book was just… boring.

“Go ahead, child. Begin at the top.”

Gabriel sighed. “The boy…raa…” He tried to remember the sounds, but it was so difficult with her staring at him like that. Dad never stared at him when he read. He left him alone until he had a problem. The letter a…. a was a vowel… vowels had two sounds… but which one was it? “Rain… rained?”

“No!” she shouted, startling Gabriel. “The a is on its own in the word, so it MUST have a short sound! Again!”

“The boy… ran… to the…” Oh God, the next word… what was the next word? It started with a c. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest. She just wouldn’t stop looking at him. He didn’t like when people looked at him like that. “…the…ssss….”

“Hard c, Gabriel! Cuh! Cuh cuh cuh!”

“The cuh… ah…rrr…nnn… er. Cuh-ah-rrr-ner?” He looked up at Mrs. Barrett who was shaking her head.

“No no no… I’m afraid you’re too low for this book.” She snatched the book from under his nose and sat down on the couch. She began rummaging through her bag, pulling out all sorts of books and papers. “We’ll have to start with something a bit more elementary.” She mumbled under her breath, “Evidently the apple fell a bit far from the tree…”

Gabriel slunk down into the chair feeling more ashamed than he ever had before. It wasn’t his fault he couldn’t read. Nobody had ever taught him. He thought he was doing a good job with his Dad and John and Mrs. Hudson, but maybe they were just being nice. Maybe they just didn’t want to tell him how dumb he was. He could feel tears stinging in his eyes and he quickly wiped them away with the back of his hand. He didn’t want her to see him crying. She’d probably yell at him for that too.

“Oh bother,” Mrs. Barrett sighed finally. “I don’t have any of my pre-primer books. I was told that you were beyond them, so I’m afraid I left them at home. Nevermind that, I’ll just bring them tomorrow. For now, let’s work on your writing.”

****

It had been two weeks since Gabriel had begun staying with Mrs. Barrett and Sherlock wasn’t convinced. Gabriel didn’t seem to be gleaning much from their time together. At least, not that he could tell. The little boy had been so excited to read each night before bed, but lately he came up with excuses to skip it. Even when Sherlock read to him, Gabriel would fidget and squirm until it was over. Even worse, on the mornings when Mrs. Barrett was coming, he would come up with a million little reasons to keep Sherlock there. He would beg him not to go, often times with tears and tantrums. One morning he claimed he was sick, another he spilled his breakfast all over so that his father was delayed in leaving. He’d even gone so far as to sneak down to Mrs. Hudson’s flat. After an hour of searching they found him sitting in her parlor having tea and scones while she watched the morning news on telly.

“Gabriel, it’s time to get up,” Sherlock said, nudging the little boy’s shoulder. “Mrs. Barrett is already here and I have to go.”

“Nooo…” he whined, pulling the duvet over his head.

“Yes. I don’t have time to argue with you,” Sherlock sighed, pulling back the covers. Gabriel sat up, his eyes still squinched shut and his hair standing on end.

“I don’t want to get up,” he whined.

“Get used to disappointment,” Sherlock replied cooly, tossing clothes in a haphazard heap into the center of the bed. “Come on, get up and put your clothes on.”

Gabriel stomped out of bed with a grumpy mumble. “I hate Mrs. Barrett…”

“That’s a bit strong, don’t you think?” Sherlock asked, letting Gabriel know that he could hear him perfectly well. “She’s trying to help you.”

“She thinks I’m dumb.”

Sherlock sighed. “She does not think you’re dumb.” He grabbed him by the wrist, pulling him over to where he sat on the bed a bit more roughly than usual and guiding his arms into the little Oxford shirt. “And even if she did, what do you care what other people think?”

Gabriel shrugged.

“Don’t shrug. Shrugging isn’t an answer.”

“I just don’t like her, Dad.”

Sherlock continued fumbling with the buttons on Gabriel’s shirt, nodding but not really paying much attention. His mind was already racing as he thought about his current puzzle. This one had been particularly complex, but Lestrade had called before dawn to tell him they had found another body that might hold the clue they’d been looking for. “Look, Gabriel… I’m not her biggest fan either, but right now I just don’t have the time. We can talk about it this evening, okay?”

“Whatever,” Gabriel sighed, leaning on Sherlock’s shoulder as he stepped into his trousers.

“Remember, when Mrs. Barrett leaves, you go down to Mrs. Hudson’s flat and stay there until myself or John gets back home.”

“I know,” he sighed.

“Breakfast is on the table. Don’t eat an entire box of cereals, please. You’ll be ill.”

“I won’t.” When Sherlock stood up, Gabriel threw his arms around his waist, hugging him tightly. “Can’t I go with you just this once?”

“Gabe, we’ve been through this every morning. You can’t come where I’m going. It’s not like when we go to see Doctor Molly in her office or Greg… it’s not a place for little boys.” The boy held tightly and he could hear him sniffling into his coattail. Sherlock wrinkled his nose. Something wasn’t right with this. He knelt down to face Gabriel. “What’s wrong?” He searched his son’s face for signs of something more than sleepiness. Clearly the child was having some kind of crisis. How could Sherlock not know? Was his own child beyond his skills of deduction?

Gabriel shrugged. “Nothing.”

“Are you sure?” Sherlock narrowed his eyes, searching the boy’s face and manner in an attempt to glean something, anything. “You’d tell me if something was wrong wouldn’t you?”

“It’s nothing, Dad. You better hurry up. Everybody’s waiting for you.”

Sherlock nodded, still not sure if he believed Gabriel, but knowing that he was going to be even later if he didn’t hurry up. He brushed his fingers through the boy’s hair. “Don’t forget to brush your teeth and hair after you eat.”

****

Gabriel sat at the table after his father and John were gone, staring at Mrs. Barrett. She was doing the morning crossword puzzle, waiting for him to finish eating his cereals and not paying much attention. He’d almost told his father earlier about Mrs. Barrett shouting at him and making him read baby books and staring at him all the time and rapping him on the hand when he tried to use his fingers to add. But the words wouldn’t come out. In that moment he’d decided that the only person that could get rid of that old battleaxe was him.

“The kettle’s still on, Mrs. Barrett. Care for a cuppa?”

The teacher looked up, surprised that the boy had said a word to her. He smiled sweetly and she couldn’t help but return it. Gabriel could be very charming when he wanted to be. Another of those genetic traits. “Why, yes dearie. That would be very nice of you. Just one sugar, please.”

Gabriel smiled like a cherub, getting up from his place and putting his cereal bowl in the sink. He stood on the little step stool by the sink and took down a teacup. He began preparing the tea, pouring the hot water over the teabag and letting it steep while he found the sugar bowl. He’d watched John a thousand times, so he knew how to make a cup of tea, but this time would be a special cup. Just for Mrs. Barrett. Stretching higher, he was able to reach the spice rack: cinnamon, cayenne pepper—all the red stuff. After steeping the tea, he pulled the bag out, dropping in a cube of sugar and then upending the bottles of red spice over the cup until the steam rising from the liquid was making his eyes burn.

Of course, the cream tea of destruction wasn’t the best thing Gabriel had tucked into his arsenal this morning. While he was supposed to be brushing his teeth, he’d prepared a few more surprises for Mrs. Barrett. Before turning around, he palmed the little silver key that would open his father’s “special” icebox. The little dorm fridge that Sherlock kept in his room was the resting place of all sorts of wondrous objects that no one knew he knew about. If he was lucky, there would be a fresh head in there.

He stepped off the stool carefully, holding the teacup in both hands as he’d been taught. “Sorry it took me so long, Mrs. Barrett. I had to find the sugar.”

“That’s all right, dear,” she cooed, taking the cup from him. He sat down at the table and took out his primer book that she made him read from every morning. It took her several minutes for her to take a sip from her cup.

“Aren’t you going to have some of your tea?”

“Oh of course, dear. I was just waiting for it to cool.” She smiled and continued with her crossword. For a moment, Gabriel was afraid that she was on to him and had humored him all this time. Finally she grasped the handle with her meaty fingers, bringing the cup slowly to her lips. Gabriel’s body was tense as he tried not to giggle. She took one sip. Then another. Slowly, she began to realize that the heat of the tea was not from the boiling water. She gasped, dropping the cup on the floor, shattering it as she put her hand over her mouth. “What on Earth!” she exclaimed, flapping her arms and sticking her tongue out. Gabriel couldn’t help it and began laughing at the spectacle of her. Leaping up from the table, she began running around the room, apparently in search of a water source. She stumbled over the stepladder as she rushed to the sink, scooping water into her mouth with cupped hands. “You little…” she whipped around, but Gabriel had already run into Sherlock’s room, peeking through the cracked door to where she stalked through the lounge.

The lounge was a literal minefield she would have to traverse to get to the coup de gras of his plan. His toys, which he had been told thousands upon thousands of times not to leave lying about, created a maze through the darkened room. He could hear her crashing into things as she passed, stumbling over the moved coffee table and the couch cushions that had been strewn here and there. “Gabriel!” she shrieked, followed by a heavy thud. He put both chubby hands over his mouth, trying to hold in the giggles, knowing that she had found John’s rollerblades. That was his timer. He knew that he would have just enough time before she got to Sherlock’s bedroom to find him. Pulling the key out of his pocket, he ran to the fridge and unlocked it. Inside there was no head, but a curious beaker filled with something round and gelatinous looked promising. In a cage on top of the fridge, a couple of white mice darted back and forth. “Even better,” Gabriel whispered, pulling one out and shoving it down into the pocket of his jeans.

“Gabriel Holmes!” Mrs. Barrett screamed as she kicked open the door of the bedroom. “Get out here and explain yourself!” He almost laughed again at seeing her. Her tight bun had fallen to the side and her glasses hung from one ear. She limped and her cozy grandma cardi was pulled down over one shoulder and hung loosely from the one button she had left.

“I just was trying to get you some water, Mrs. B!” he said, sounding for all the world like the sweetest little boy on Earth. He held out the beaker, which she took and immediately began screaming once she realized she was holding a container of eyeballs. In all of her thrashing, she managed to throw them all over the room before finally letting the beaker crash to the floor. Gabriel was laughing so hard that there were tears streaming from the corners of his eyes, finally unable to contain it anymore.

“You evil… EVIL little beast!” she shrieked, grabbing for him. She would have caught him too if he hadn’t handed her the mouse.

****

“What did you forget?” John asked as the cabbie drove them back toward Baker Street. “You never forget anything.”

“My mobile. I _need_ it. And I was so distracted by Gabriel this morning that I left it sitting on the nighttable.” Sherlock sighed. He never used to forget things. “I’ll just run up and get it,” he said as the cab pulled to a stop in front of 221B. Sherlock burst out of the cab in his usual dramatic fashion, sprinting across the sidewalk and fumbling for his keys. He paused, realizing that something was different. He looked at his keychain, examining each key trying to pinpoint what was out of place. “The fridge key… why would I have taken it off?” he wondered aloud. He shrugged and peeled off the house key, but before he could get it into the lock, the door flew open and Mrs. Barrett nearly bowled him over as she bolted out the door. “Mrs. Barrett?” he called.

“I quit!”


	6. Atonement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Gabriel learns about paying the piper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I'm so glad to see that so many people are enjoying this story! All the kudos give me the warm fuzzies!

John’s mobile rang and he sighed, knowing who it would be before he even took it out of his pocket. A glance at the screen confirmed his suspicions and he answered, despite his better judgment. “Hello?”

“John! Where the Hell are you and Sherlock? I’ve been calling his mobile and he isn’t answering!” Greg Lestrade’s voice sounded annoyed and urgent. “We’ve been standing out here in the cold for over an hour waiting!”

“I know, I know… look, we’ve had a little problem. We’ll be there as soon as we can.”

“There’s cops and medical examiners swarming all over. Anderson’s chomping at the bit to get in the area and Donovan is, not to put too fine a point on it, busting my balls. I need you here now!”

“Well I don’t know what to tell you, Greg. Sherlock’s kind of uhm… busy at the moment.” Though it didn’t look like it, Sherlock was, in fact, otherwise engaged. He was sitting at the kitchen table, both sleeves of his crisp white shirt rolled up to the elbows with a nicotine patch adorning each forearm. A cup of tea sat in front of him, untouched but still steaming. Gabriel moved slowly around the kitchen, sweeping Mrs. Hudson’s enormous broom over the floor and sniffling to himself. Not that he could be blamed. After the shouting that had ensued when Sherlock saw the state of the flat, John almost cried himself. Gabriel’s tears had settled into the shaky sobs of a criminal who wasn’t a bit sorry he’d committed his crime but infinitely sorry that he’d been caught. He wasn’t sure how much progress the child was making, but as Sherlock had pointed out, it was the principle.

“There’s more shards of porcelain under the edge of the fridge,” Sherlock commented, picking up his teacup.

“How much longer do I have to do this?” Gabriel whined, leaning on the broom handle.

“This? Oh, not much longer. The teacup is almost cleaned up. Then of course the floor will have to be mopped as the linoleum is sticky with a paste of sugar and red pepper. And then, the wreckage of the lounge. The whole job shouldn’t take you more than a few hours.” Sherlock picked up a book and began flipping through it, seemingly indifferent to Gabriel’s distress. “But buck up, Gabe. At least you don’t have to clean up the glass and eyeballs in my bedroom.”

Gabriel gave a heavy whine and stomped his feet. “I can’t clean, I’m just a little person.”

“Yeah? You seemed pretty grown up when you were burning little old ladies with homemade acid and scaring them out the door.”

“But Dad… I didn’t…”

Sherlock peered over the edge of the book. “Really? Were you planning on pleading ‘not guilty’ given who I am, what I do and the astounding amount of evidence?”

John choked in Lestrade’s ear, nearly dropping the mobile. “Ahem… yes… we’ll be there in a half hour.” He hung up and cleared his throat. “That was Lestrade. He says we need to get there quick.”

“Yes, as soon as Mrs. Hudson gets here,” Sherlock sighed. “She’ll need to come up and supervise Gabriel while he finishes cleaning the flat. And Gabriel, do pray that she doesn’t find Frodo the mouse before you do.”

“Sam,” Gabriel mumbled.

“Pardon?”

“Nothing.”

Mrs. Hudson arrived ten minutes later carrying a plate of scones in one hand and her cup of tea in the other. “All right, I’m here finally. I had to change from my dressing gown. It isn’t decent to be seen in one’s dressing gown.” She sat down at the table. “Gabriel, dear, I brought you some scones since you didn’t get to finish yours before.”

“No, Gabriel has had quite enough breakfast this morning,” Sherlock sighed, rising from his place. “And don’t let him watch telly for the rest of the day. I’m sure he’ll be busy enough.”

Gabriel’s head shot up from his work. “What about when I finish?”

“Well, when you finish, you’ll need a bath so that you don’t look like a street urchin when you make your apologies.”

“My apple-jeez?”

“Ap-pol-o-gies,” Sherlock sounded. “I’ve already been in touch with Mrs. Barrett and she’ll be expecting us at four so that you might tell her that you’re sorry for your behavior this morning.”

“What?!” Gabriel’s lip trembled. “Dad, nooo…”

“Oh yes. The poor woman will have nightmares for the rest of her life, but at least your conscience will be clear.” He gave a smug grin and brushed his fingers affectionately through Gabriel’s hair. Sherlock and John went to the top of the stairs, pulling their coats on.

“No,” Gabriel said, marching over to his father, dragging the broom behind him.

“Hmm?” Sherlock replied, staring down.

“NO! I will not apple-gize to Ms. Barrett!”

“Oh yes. You will, Gabriel.”

“NO NO NO!” he protested, accenting each negative with another stomp of his little foot.

John stared. “Oooh kay… I’ll just go get a cab.” He rushed down the stairs before they could stop him.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Gabriel,” he sighed. “When you do something wrong, you must say that you’re sorry…”

“You’re a liar!” he shouted, throwing the broom down at his father’s feet.

“Gabriel!”

“You are! You’re a liar! You said I didn’t have to say I’m sorry if I’m not! And I’m not sorry! She was mean to me, so I was mean to her back! I will NOT say I’m sorry! You can lock me in my room or beat me if you want to, but I’m not going to say sorry to her!” And with that he burst into tears and ran to his room, the door slamming behind him.

**OoOoOo**

“What do you think he meant by ‘mean’?” Molly asked, walking along the perimeter of the crime scene with Sherlock and John.

“She’s an English schoolteacher,” John said. “If she wasn’t mean there’d be something wrong with her.”

Molly laughed. “That’s not true. My friend Mary is an excellent teacher. A governess, really, and actually very nice.”

Sherlock sighed. “Maybe I should just let it go. To be honest, I wasn’t particularly fond of Ms. Barrett either. She reminded me of my great-aunt that used to pull my hair and push her dentures out at me.”

“That’s disgusting,” John mumbled.

“No no… you can’t just let it go, Sherlock. Even if she was a nasty old woman, he could have hurt her. You can’t just let that pass.” Molly nodded, unzipping the bulky coveralls she wore. “Otherwise every time someone comes over that he doesn’t like, he’ll throw a cup of eyeballs at them.” She and John both giggled. “I can’t believe he did that.”

“Yes, very amusing. I don’t notice either of you volunteering to help me clean them up.”

“You have to hand it to the kid, he’s inventive,” John said.

“He is most definitely your child, Sherlock,” Molly continued, biting her lip to stifle her laughter.

“Are you implying that I would try to kill a teacher with doctored tea, a beaker full of eyeballs and John’s rollerblades?”

“Yes,” Molly and John answered in unison.

Molly’s eyes lit up suddenly. “You know, my friend Mary _is_ a qualified governess. And I think she’s between jobs. I could call her if you like.”

“Do people even still have governesses?” John asked.

“Apparently so,” Molly replied. “I don’t think they live in anymore…”

“Thank God. No one else is moving in,” Sherlock grumbled.

**OoOoOo**

Mrs. Hudson didn’t go up to check on Gabriel for an hour. She figured she’d let him have his cry and get it over with. Sometimes you just needed to cry. Poor thing, after having overheard that awful woman talking to Gabriel, she couldn’t say she blamed him for retaliating. Granted, he shouldn’t have done it, but it wasn’t unwarranted. The really funny part was that it was completely expected that Sherlock’s child would come up with that.

She stopped at the door and put her ear close to the wood, listening closely. All was quiet and she tapped lightly. “Gabriel, dear? Are you in there?” He didn’t answer and for a moment Mrs. Hudson was afraid that he’d climbed out of the window. She tried the knob and found that the door wasn’t locked. Slowly she pushed the door open and saw that Gabriel was lying across the bed with his face buried in the pillows. “Oh, Gabriel… you poor thing. Are you all right?” She sat down on the bed beside him and rubbed gentle circles on his back.

“No!” he cried. “I’m not all right at all!” He sat up and let Mrs. Hudson embrace him. He laid his head on her shoulder, still sniffling. “I’m not going to say sorry to her, Mrs. Hudson. I’m not sorry at all.”

“I know, sweetheart,” she said rocking him. She felt his little body shudder as he began crying again. “Shh… there there, dear. It isn’t worth all this. You’ve got so much pride, you know. Just like your father. It makes you both stubborn old mules. Sometimes, though, you have to swallow all that pride and admit you made a mistake.”

Gabriel pushed back. “But I didn’t! She was mean to me.”

“What do you mean?”

“She made me read baby books and she stared at me when I read and if I got a word wrong, she would always yell at me! She told me I was dumb…”

Mrs. Hudson narrowed her eyes. “Did she actually say that to you?”

“No, but whenever I got words wrong, she’d say ‘you’re too low for this book.’ She said my apples came off a different tree!” He burst into a fresh torrent of sobs and threw himself against her.

Mrs. Hudson held the little boy tight, stroking his hair and trying to soothe him. “Poor darling… why didn’t you tell anyone that before?”

“Because Dad was busy and I didn’t want him to think I wasn’t smart. I thought if she just quit coming that he wouldn’t find out how dumb I am.”

Gripping his shoulders, she held the little boy so that she was staring into his eyes. “Gabriel Holmes! You stop saying you’re dumb right this second.” Mrs. Hudson didn’t often get angry but this Barrett woman tried her patience. Imagine that! Letting a child think that he was dumb. “As far as brains go, you’ve got the best in Britain. Top of the line! And that’s just genetics. If you ask me, she’s the one with mental problems!” She kissed his forehead and used a crumpled handkerchief from her pocket to dry his eyes. “There, no more crying. We’ll go downstairs and have that scone and a bit of tea…”

“But Dad said…”

“Pssht… the old sod isn’t here now, is he?” Gabriel shook his head. “All right, you go into the bath and wash your face. I’ll fix you a cuppa with lots of honey and milk and then me and you will finish cleaning up downstairs.” Gabriel managed a small smile and nodded, doing as he was told. She watched him leave the room, closing the door to the bath behind him. Her expression darkened and she hurried downstairs. She had a phone call to make.

**OoOoOo**

Gabriel curled up as tight as he could in the corner of the cab as he rode beside Sherlock across town. He hadn’t said a word, afraid that he would start crying again. His father hadn’t said much since picking him up, but he didn’t mention their earlier argument. Gabriel couldn’t tell if he was still angry or not. He hoped not. Over the course of the last month, he had become very attached to Sherlock. And John and Mrs. Hudson and Doctor Molly. Maybe if he was mad, then he’d send him away. Now that Baker Street was his home, he couldn’t imagine having to go back to St. Christopher’s. He also liked that he was almost like a regular kid now with a dad and a family to care about him. Going back would be so lonely. It was enough to make him sad again and he felt that tight, burning feeling in the corners of his eyes and jaw.

“Dad?” he murmured.

“Yes?”

He cleared his throat, trying to keep it from wavering. But Mrs. Hudson had told him that he needed to speak up for himself. “Are you going to send me back to the convent?”

Sherlock’s head jerked up from his mobile. “What? Why would you think that?”

“Because you’re mad at me for messing up the flat and being mean to Ms. Barrett.”

“Gabriel, I’m not mad at you. At least not anymore. And even if I was, I wouldn’t send you away. You’re my child and despite what others might think, I’m not unaware of the gravity of that responsibility.” Gabriel nodded, still not really understanding. “Besides that, I do like you.” Sherlock winked at him. “Even when you’re bad.”

Gabriel gave a sigh of relief and snuggled closer to his father. After their row earlier, he had been convinced that Sherlock wouldn’t like him anymore. And though he was worried about having to choke out an apology to that awful Ms. Barrett, the thought of being unloved again was worse. “Dad?”

“Yes, Gabriel?”

“I’m not sorry about Mrs. Barrett…”

Sherlock sighed. “I know, but…”

“But I am sorry I was bad to you.”

Sherlock nodded and hugged the little boy, pressing a light kiss to the messy curls at his crown. “I suppose I forgive you.”

The cab screeched to a halt in front of a tiny house at the end of a cul-de-sac in Barnes. Gabriel thought it looked a little bit like Strega Nona’s house in his book. Except it didn’t have the chicken feet. And he guessed that Ms. Barrett wasn’t a child-eating witch. He hoped not. Sherlock got out of the cab first and held the door for Gabriel who stepped out slowly. “Oi, can you wait?” Sherlock asked the cabbie who replied with a short nod. He took Gabriel’s hand and led him to the front door.

Gabriel dragged his feet, wanting to postpone his date with doom as long as possible. Funny, he had never envisioned this part when devising his plan. He’d assumed that Ms. Barrett would run screaming into the street and be gone. He’d never have to see her again. It might have worked if his father hadn’t forgotten his mobile. When they got to the door, Sherlock rapped lightly and smiled reassuringly at Gabriel.

“Ah! Mr. Holmes, and Gabriel. I was expecting you. Do come in,” she said, honey dripping from her words. The lady was good at pretending to be nice, Gabe observed. “I’m afraid I look a bit frightful. I’ve been lying down all day after my harrowing morning.” She crossed to her tiny flowered settee and sat down daintily. Gabriel looked all around, observing the yards of pink and cream colored material that had been sacrificed to decorate her sitting room. Splashes of large flowers adorned every surface and three cats slinked in and out between her ankles.

“Of course, Ms. Barrett. And we won’t be taking up much of your time.” He nudged Gabriel forward and the boy stood in front of her with his head low. “Gabriel, don’t you have something to say to Ms. Barrett?”

He sighed and cast a pleading glance over his shoulder at Sherlock. “I… I’m sorry Ms. Barrett. I was just playing a joke. I didn’t mean to hurt you. Please forgive me.” He looked back at Sherlock again as if to say “is that enough?”. He nodded and Gabriel rushed back to him, sighing with relief.

“Of course, child,” Ms. Barrett said, a grin on her face not unlike the large silver cat that leapt up on her lap. “Boys will be boys.”

“Indeed,” Sherlock replied cooly. “Gabriel, would you please wait for me on the porch? Don’t get in the cab, just wait there. I have to settle up with Ms. Barrett.”

Gabriel nodded and went outside, closing the door behind him.

**OoOoOo**

As soon as he heard the door close, Sherlock turned his cold, blue-green eyes on the old woman. “Do you delight in torturing children, Ms. Barrett?”

The plastic smile she had glued on her face instantly melted at hearing his tone. “Pardon?”

“I’m not sure if you know who I am or what sort of work I do, but I can assure you that in my experience, when something doesn’t seem right, it usually isn’t. You call yourself a tutor of children, but honestly, I’m not quite sure what would propel you toward that purpose. I can deduce, given that your house is devoid of all pictures of children or family, by the looks of your hand, you’ve never been married and that you have cat hair on every surface, that not only do you not have children, but that you have done everything in your power to repel them.”

“Surely you must realize that a childless woman is quite capable of teaching them,” Ms. Barrett huffed.

“Indeed. But not a heartless woman that loathes children.”

“How dare you!” Ms. Barrett sputtered.

“How dare _you_ , Ms. Barrett.” Sherlock’s voice slid lower and dripped with venom. “I left my child in your care and you very nearly broke him. Gabriel is a scared little boy, desperate to please and hungry for affection but you ridiculed him and made him believe that he was stupid and that only you could save him from his idiocy. I brought Gabriel to you so that he might apologize for any pain he might have caused, but I now realize that red pepper and a twisted ankle are far too good for you.” Sherlock pulled five twenty pound notes from his wallet and tossed them on her coffee table. “I think this should settle our account,” he said, turning on his heel and exiting quickly.

Sherlock came through the door and held his hand out for Gabriel. “Come on. Are you hungry? What’s say we call the others and have dinner.”


	7. Pizza Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Gabriel realizes that pizza is the food of the gods and Sherlock is confused about Molly Hooper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Re-reading this as I post is so much fun! Oh, and remember-- we've gone totally AU with this.

One of Gabriel’s new favorite things was Pizza Night. Every Tuesday, no matter what else was going on, his dad, John, him, Mrs. Hudson and most times, even Doctor Molly and Greg, would order pizzas at Baker Street and gorge themselves on the cheesy delicacy. Even his dad, who never ate, would indulge in that most perfect of foods. At the convent, Gabe had never looked forward to meals. Most of them tasted exactly the same and the menu never varied: oatmeal for breakfast, something gray with meat for lunch and leftovers or soup for dinner. They only had dessert at Christmas time. Certainly no scones with honey or jam, chocolate biscuits or fizzy drinks that tickled your nose.

“So I called my friend, Mary,” Molly chirped, unpacking her shopping bag. “She’s available to see Gabriel a few times a week. I mean, if you think Sherlock would be okay with it.”

John shrugged, taking a bottle of wine from Molly and working the corkscrew into it. “I don’t know, Molly. After that debacle with Ms. Barrett, I’m not sure he’s willing to try that again.”

“I don’t want another teacher,” Gabriel grumbled, counting napkins for everyone. “They’re mean.”

“Not all of them,” Molly said, gathering glasses. “Mary’s the sweetest thing ever. I know you’d like her if you met her, Gabe.”

He shrugged. “Maybe.” Meeting new people was still a little difficult for Gabriel. Mrs. Hudson had insisted he play with other kids at the park the week before. They were playing a game where everyone hid and one person had to find them. They weren’t following the rules at all and Gabriel got angry, kicking sand on one boy and pushing another one down until Mrs. Hudson finally walked him back to the flat. “Where’s the pizza?” he asked, trying desperately to change the subject.

“Your dad and Greg are supposed to be picking it up on their way back.”

Molly looked around nervously then nudged John on the arm. “How many did you order?”

“Four. Just like usual.”

She breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh good. There should be enough then.”

“Isn’t there always?”

“Well… I sort of… asked Mary to come along. I thought she could meet Gabriel and Sherlock… maybe they’d hit it off, you know. She’s really in desperate need of a job and when we had lunch today she just seemed so… lonely. Ever since her fiancé broke things off last summer, she’s been kind of… you know, depressed. And then she lost her job. It’s just a mess for her, I’m afraid. Do you think I should order another pizza?”

John laughed. “I think it will be fine. You worry too much, Molly.”

She shrugged, reaching up to get plates from the cabinet and handing them to Gabriel. “Well… maybe. But I don’t want Sherlock to think I’m being pushy. He was saying that he should find someone and that he couldn’t trust Mycroft to do it for him this time.”

“But why do I have to have a teacher,” Gabriel whined. “I thought I was fine on my own.”

“Don’t you want to go to school with the other kids?” Molly asked.

“No,” he answered with no hesitation whatsoever. If the kids at the park were any indication, he’d just as soon leave them alone.

“But don’t you want to have friends to play with?”

“I have all of you,” he replied. “And it’s more fun to stay with Mrs. Hudson when John and Dad are working.” His eyes lit up as he heard the front door open and he dashed down the stairs.

“Gabriel! Don’t run!” John called. “He’s going to break his neck one day.”

As soon as Sherlock’s feet touched the mat, Gabriel was scrambling into his arms. “Hi, Dad!”

Sherlock nearly dropped his shoulder bag trying to support Gabriel’s weight. “Oh careful…” he said. “There’s part of an experiment in there.”

Gabriel laughed and threw his arms around his father’s neck. “I thought you were never going to get here.” That morning Sherlock was gone by the time Gabriel awakened and he hadn’t seen him all day. “I’m really hungry.”

“So you’re only glad to see me if I brought food?”

Gabriel giggled. “No… I’m always glad to see you, Dad. But if you have food, that makes it even better.”

“Oh I see. But the man you should be talking to is Lestrade.” He jerked his head back, gesturing toward Greg Lestrade who was struggling through the door with a tower of pizza boxes.

Gabriel peered over his father’s shoulder and waved at the Detective Inspector. “Hi.”

“Hey there, kid. You said you were hungry?”

“Yes!”

“Well that’s a shame. We didn’t bring any for you. I’m afraid you’ll just have to eat beans for dinner.”

Gabriel stuck his tongue out at Greg. “You’re just teasing me.”

“You think so?” Greg asked, wiggling his eyebrows.

They climbed the stairs to find that the counters and tables had been cleared for pizza and boxes. Molly and John already had glasses of wine and Molly was in the process of pouring one for Sherlock and Greg. There weren’t enough places to sit in the dining area, so they just sat all over the place, usually with the telly on. Sherlock set Gabriel on the floor gently as he took the glass of wine from Molly with a whispered thank you. Soon everyone was sitting around talking and laughing. Gabriel wondered if everybody’s family was like this or just his. At St. Christopher’s, they weren’t supposed to talk during mealtimes, much less laugh and joke with one another. Even his father, who was normally so serious and preoccupied, was relaxed on Pizza Night. Gabriel was sitting on his lap, listening to them talk, stealing pepperonis off of his pizza, when Molly’s phone buzzed.

“Oh! That’s me. I bet that’s Mary.” She pulled her mobile from her pocket and stared down at the face. “One second… I’ll be right back,” she said, excusing herself down the stairs.

“Where is Mrs. Hudson tonight?” Greg asked, pulling another slice of pizza from the open box on the coffee table.

“Visiting her sister,” John explained. “She left this afternoon as soon as I got here. She said she’d be back Thursday night.”

“Who will stay with me?” Gabriel asked, taking a bite out of a slice of pizza that was larger than his head.

“I’ll be here tomorrow,” Sherlock said, pushing Gabriel gently to the side so he could stand. “Unless something comes up, in which case… I’ll just take you along.”

“YES!” Gabriel exclaimed. “Dead bodies and blood!”

“You’re a bit scary, aren’t you?” Greg said, staring at Gabriel with an expression that was both amused and horrified.

Everyone stopped and looked toward the stairs, hearing female voices ascending. When Molly emerged from the stairwell, she was leading a pixie-like woman with short blonde hair and a tinkling giggle that made everyone involuntarily smile. “Everyone, this is my friend Mary Morstan,” Molly said. “Mary, this is everyone,” she continued, gesturing around the room.

“Hello. I’m so sorry I’m late but the traffic was terrible. I was trying to get from Soho to here and it was a nightmare. Two idiots on a motorbike nearly ran me down! I swear the guy on the back was changing clothes while in motion and paying fuck all attention to the road.” It was out of her mouth before she realized that Gabriel was standing in front of her, looking up with those enormous, accusing eyes. “Hello, you,” she said.

“You aren’t supposed to say that word, you know,” Gabriel said, matter of factly.

“You’re probably right, but sometimes it’s the only word that fits.” Mary replied. “You must be Gabriel.” She offered her hand. He looked at it with suspicion and finally took it, shaking vigorously.

Molly giggled. “Yep, that’s our Gabe. Doesn’t he look angelic? Of course, he’s no angel.”

“I can tell. He’s got mischief just dripping off those cherub cheeks,” Mary replied with a dazzling smile that made Gabe smile too. “But it’s ok, Gabe. So do I.” Molly took her arm and led her into the room, making short introductions along the way. “This is Sherlock,” Molly said, looking down to hide the blush that had risen on her cheeks.

“Oh yes… I’ve heard about you.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Oh?”

“Well of course. The genius detective that faked his own death and came back from the grave… oh wait… you aren’t a zombie are you?” Mary asked, her expression deadly serious. “Because that would be so disappointing.”

“I’m afraid nothing so dramatic,” Sherlock replied.

“Not to hear Molly tell it,” she said, her eyebrow quirked.

Gabriel took Mary’s hand again and dragged her over to where John sat on the floor. “This is John. He’s a doctor. He’s not gay.”

“Gabriel!” the entire room exclaimed at once. John’s face went purple.

“Well he’s not,” Gabriel sighed, shrugging.

John stood up, shaking his head. “I’m so sorry.” He took Mary’s hand, “John Watson. Nice to meet you.”

Gabriel watched them exchange glances. His nose wrinkled as he tried to sort out what it was they were doing. They looked dazed, almost intoxicated as they gazed at one another, shaking hands for a little longer than necessary. “You can let go of her hand now, John,” Gabriel sighed. Sherlock took the cue to grab Gabriel from behind and hoist him up on his narrow hip.

“Leave people alone,” he grumbled at Gabriel, sitting back down on the couch and situating the child on one side with another piece of pizza.

“Wait, I do know you, Dr. Watson. I read your blog!” Mary said.

“Oh God…” Sherlock sighed.

Greg snorted. “What have you got to worry about? At least you always come out looking clever and eccentric. I just look like an idiot.”

“You _are_ an idiot,” Sherlock retorted.

“Practically everyone is,” the room answered in unison then erupted in laughter.

John took Mary’s arm and led her into the kitchen. “Let me get you a drink and a plate.” Soon everyone was situated again, having their own private conversations. The room buzzed with it. It wasn’t quiet but it wasn’t loud. Gabe felt comforted in this atmosphere and before long he was leaning on Sherlock’s arm, looking over at the book open on his father’s lap, his eyelids getting heavy. Mary had taken Molly’s chair and John sat beside her on the floor, taking it upon himself to relate the saga of Ms. Barrett, with others occasionally joining in. Sherlock sat silently, still not completely comfortable with the sudden influx of a social life that seemed to surround him lately.

**OoOoOo**

Molly stood up and stretched, rubbing her back from where she’d been sitting on the floor talking to Greg. “I must be getting old,” she sighed. “Sitting on the floor doesn’t really agree with me anymore.”

“There’s room over here,” Gabriel said, pointing at the narrow, empty space beside Sherlock on the end of the couch. “Budge up, Dad.” Sherlock sighed and pulled Gabriel into his lap, shifting so that there was room for her.

“Oh… thanks…” Molly said. She carefully stepped over the plates and cups that were strewn around the coffee table. She was doing well until the edge of her shoe caught one of the napkins and she stumbled, sitting down on the couch hard, nearly landing on top of Sherlock and Gabriel. “Sorry…” she mumbled, trying to recover. She could feel herself blushing hotly and mentally she kicked herself. She thought she had moved beyond this schoolgirl crush on Sherlock, but every now and then it was there, just as strong as it had been before. There were times when talking to him was as easy as breathing, and other times when she was positively lost for words. Times like now when he didn’t seem to be paying any attention, though she knew he was taking everything in. When his blue eyes were downturned over a book or a file or that damned microscope. Or when she could tell that there was a storm going on inside his funny odd head. What was he thinking about? Some days she dared to think it might be her and then she’d become that giggly, silly old mess that she’d always been. Everyone around her was talking, but she wasn’t listening. She could only sit by Sherlock and try not to concentrate too hard on the heat of his thigh against hers.

“So basically, Gabriel needs a teacher who realizes how truly exceptional he is, right?” Mary chirped, jerking Molly back to reality. Gabriel, upon hearing his name, jumped up from his seat and immediately climbed into Mary’s lap. “That woman must have been blind not to realize what a wonder you are.”

“She said my apples weren’t from the same tree,” Gabriel said. Everyone laughed.

“I think you mean, ‘the apple fell far from the tree,’” Sherlock corrected.

“Whatever. I thought it sounded pretty mean.”

“Well that’s just silly. I think you have very promising apples,” Mary cooed, pinching his cheek lightly.

John cleared his throat. “Well, Gabe needs some help just to fill in his gaps. I mean, Sherlock and myself haven’t done too badly teaching him to read and write, but I’m sure a qualified teacher could do a much better job.”

“I’m sure you’re doing fine. Maybe just a few mornings a week? Or I could stay with him longer if you like. I don’t mind.”

“Do you like mice?” Gabriel asked, playing with the pin on her lapel. “Cuz I have two mice: Frodo and Sam.”

“They aren’t yours, Gabriel. They belong to the lab and they’re going back when I’m done with the experiment. Though I think the most interesting thing we’ve found out about Sam is that he has a very strong heart,” Sherlock said, not looking up.

John sighed. “What he really means is, do you mind catching them when he lets them out? I don’t think Mrs. Hudson’s heart would stand it again.”

Mary laughed. “I adore mice. And what awesome names for them.” She leaned in to whisper in Gabriel’s ear. “I have a thing for hobbits, myself.”

**OoOoOo**

Gabriel emerged from the bath, wrapped in a gigantic, fluffy white towel as he hobbled across the hall to his bedroom. “It’s cold!” he exclaimed, his chin trembling.

Sherlock marched behind him like a bridesmaid holding up his train. “Well hurry up, then,” he grumbled. “The sooner you get your pajamas on, the sooner you can get warm under the blankets.” He scooted past, throwing open Gabriel’s wardrobe and finding a set of pajamas.

Gabriel wrinkled his nose. “I wanted to wear the skully ones.”

“The ones you’ve worn every night for a week? I’m sorry, they climbed out of the basket on their own, went downstairs and threw themselves in the washing machine. I’m afraid the boring plaid ones will have to do.”

He sighed and allowed his father to help him into his pajamas and then use the towel to scrub the excess water out of his hair. “We need to have this cut. It’s getting far too long, Gabe. Isn’t it in your eyes?”

“Not too much.”

“Mmm…” Sherlock replied. “I’m not sure I believe that. It will probably be wild in the morning, but we don’t have time to let it dry since you were up so late.” Sherlock paused, thinking how absurd he sounded and shaking his head. He’d been having some kind of identity crisis since Gabriel came to Baker Street. “All right, I think that’s as good as it gets. In you get.” He pulled back the covers and let Gabriel slide under.

Gabriel pulled out his favorite book and flipped to the story about the dragon again. “This one.”

“Again?” Sherlock sighed. “Don’t you want to hear a different story? You know how this one comes out.”

“Nope. That one.” He pointed at the page insistently. “And do the voices too.”

He sighed. “All right, then.” He cleared his throat and began reading. “Each kingdom was to send their most beautiful maiden as tribute to the dragon…”

“Dad?”

“Yes?”

“Do you think John likes Mary?”

“I guess. Don’t you like Mary?”

“Well yeah, but I don’t mean like that. I mean he likes her like he wants to kiss her, I think.”

“It’s possible, I suppose.” Sherlock opened the book to start again. “Wait… how do you know about kissing and people liking each other?”

“I watch EastEnders with Mrs. Hudson sometimes. They kiss all the time on that show.”

Sherlock looked disgusted. “I can’t believe she’s rotting your brain with that drivel. Don’t watch it anymore.”

Gabriel shrugged. “It’s mostly boring. I don’t know why boys would want to kiss girls anyway.”

Sherlock started to respond, but then realized that he had no idea what to say. “Ahem… The dragon streaked across the sky, circling the maiden as she fought against the chains that held her to the rocky crags…”

“Dad?”

Sherlock sighed and threw the book aside dramatically. “Yes?”

“I think Doctor Molly likes you.”


	8. A Nightmare Before Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock explains Santa's association with The Doctor.

Sherlock didn’t **_hate_** Christmas. It was more that he was **_uncomfortable_** with Christmas. He didn’t get it. As a child, Christmas was just like any other day, for the most part. When his grandmother was alive, she insisted on everyone coming to her country estate for Christmas Eve, but it wasn’t exactly a warm, family occasion. More like the stuffy, posh social event of the year. For that reason, he always associated Christmas with stiff wool jackets and the smell of that legion of yappy Yorkshire terriers that followed her around. Presents were often either useful items like socks or dress shirts or completely impractical items like Eighteenth Century hunting rifles or silver whisky flasks with your initials engraved on the side. When Sherlock was a little boy, before his parents were divorced, the only time he ever received toys were the little things that he and Mycroft would exchange. Each would save their allowance for several weeks before Christmas and then use the money to buy one another something frivolous. Indeed it was Mycroft who had given him his very first magnifying glass. Once their little family had begun to fall apart, Christmas didn’t mean much anymore. It was just a day. Nowadays, he and Mycroft barely spoke, their parents and grandparents were dead… there was no family left to speak of. Though he didn’t like to admit it, when others spoke of going out of town to visit relatives or popping over to Christmas parties, Sherlock felt sad. The sadness, over the years, had turned to cold bitterness and hence there was no love lost between Christmas and Sherlock Holmes.

“Look, Dad!” Gabriel shouted, pointing at the television. “An advertisement for the Christmas tree lighting in the square! Can we go?”

Sherlock glanced up at the television. “Oh… well… probably.” He was a little puzzled. Gabriel had admitted that he didn’t know much about Christmas other than the basic Christian themes that had been drilled into his head by the nuns at St. Christopher’s. So his excitement about a Christmas tree was a little surprising.

“John and Mary said we were getting a Christmas tree soon.”

“If you want one, I suppose,” Sherlock sighed.

“Hooray!” Gabriel exclaimed. He watched a little more, sitting cross-legged on the floor with his hands supporting his chin. Sherlock peered over the edge of the book, observing him and his reactions to the ads. He could almost feel the excitement radiating off of the little boy as the Christmas frenzy began to kick into high-gear. Suddenly, Sherlock realized how alike they really were. Gabriel was aware of Christmas but it hadn’t been anything special until now. And his excitement and wonder might just be enough to infect them all. “Oooh… it’s Father Christmas! Dad, do you think there’s such a thing as Father Christmas?”

Sherlock considered his answer. On one hand, he believed in complete honesty with everyone, including children. Of course, Gabe was only five and seemed so excited. How could he possibly dash it for him? “Absolutely,” he replied. “How did **_you_** find out about Father Christmas?”

“The caretaker told me. He was pretty nice. He used to give me a present at Christmas. That’s where I got my book with the dragon story. He said it was his when he was a little kid.”

“That was pretty nice of him,” Sherlock replied.

“He was nice. He said I reminded him of his little boy that had died.” Gabe’s statement was weighty and it struck a chord with Sherlock. Even though he’d only known of Gabe’s existence for a little more than a couple of months, already he knew that if something terrible happened, his life would be devastated. “Father Christmas… there’s just one of them right?”

“I think so. Lives in the North Pole or something like that. Hangs out with reindeer.”

“So if there’s just one, how can there be one on every street? Because when we were in the cab going to the shop the other day, I saw like five of them.”

“Well…” Sherlock’s brain raced to come up with an acceptable answer that wouldn’t punch a hole in Gabriel’s blind faith. “Father Christmas is a Time Lord like Doctor Who. He can be in lots of places at the same time. That’s how he gets all over the world in one night.”

“Wow! Really?” Gabriel whispered, climbing into his father’s lap.

“Absolutely,” Sherlock replied, starting to enjoy it now. “For Christmas, the TARDIS just looks like a sleigh. Which would also explain how he gets all those presents in there. The sleigh’s bigger on the inside.”

“Ahem…” They jumped as John cleared his throat. He and Mary stood at the top of the stairs, trying to swallow their laughter.

**OoOoOo**

At first it seemed like part of his dream, the distant screaming of a child. One of those things that in deep sleep seem insignificant. If you just don’t pay attention, they’ll go away. But this time it got louder and kept getting louder until Sherlock could make out one word distinctly: daddy.

Sherlock sat up with a start. For a moment he was disoriented, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand and trying to focus. It was still pitch dark in the room, the streetlamps below still glowing. He pawed around at the nightstand to find his watch. The hands glowed blue, revealing that the time was 2:12am..

“Daddy!”

This time Sherlock leapt to his feet, pulling his pajama trousers on as he stumbled out of his bedroom and took the stairs two at a time. John poked his head out of his bedroom as Sherlock rounded the corner. “Should I come?” he asked, his voice still groggy from sleep.

“No,” Sherlock replied shortly, fumbling with the doorknob. When he fell through the door, Gabriel was sitting straight up in his bed but his eyes were closed and he was pointing at something unseen in the corner. His breaths came in shuddering gasps and his little body was shaking all over. Sherlock rushed to his side, instinctively gathering the child in his arms. “Wake up, Gabriel,” he murmured, still sleepy himself as he pinned the tiny arms to his sides before they could smack him in the face. The boy struggled, still reaching out for the invisible enemy even as his father held him. Every muscle in his little body was taut and quivering. The violence scared Sherlock and he shouted, “Wake up!” hoping that the firm tone of his voice would snap the boy out of this fugue. It worked and Gabriel’s eyes opened. He was silent at first, obviously shedding the remnants of being asleep and trying to focus. “You’re all right,” Sherlock said, his voice gentler this time.

As soon as Gabriel’s eyes focused on Sherlock, he burst into tears. Not his usual whimpering and sniffling, but full on tears that shook his body and drew heart-wrenching wails from deep down in his chest. Gabriel threw himself against Sherlock’s bare chest sobbing into the hollow at the base of his throat. He immediately embraced the child, cradling him tightly and stroking his hair. “Shush… you’re all right. It’s over.” He waited until Gabriel’s sobs had subsided into heavy shudders and sniffles. “Let it go.” Sherlock felt sorry for him. He’d had the same problem as a child and even now. Highly intelligent people often had extremely vivid dreams that lingered for hours afterward. So many times he’d awakened, his breathing labored and his skin beaded with sweat, still thinking he was standing on the roof at Bart’s.

“Don’t send me back,” Gabriel whined. “I want to stay here.”

“Gabriel, nobody’s sending you anywhere.”

“That’s not what you said! You said you didn’t know me. And I kept calling and calling and you couldn’t hear me… and when I ran after you, you pushed me away and kicked me… and the nuns dragged me away again… and… and…” His words trailed off in another wave of tears that left him breathless and coughing until he was gagging on his own tears.

“Gabriel, you have to calm down before you make yourself sick,” Sherlock said. He didn’t want to be harsh, but babying the child would just drag the memory out longer so that he would relive the trauma over and over. He tucked Gabriel’s head under his chin and rocked him gently. He looked up to see John and Mary peering around the doorframe.

“Everything okay?” John asked.

“He’s fine. Just a nightmare,” Sherlock replied, brushing Gabriel’s hair, stringy and soaked with sweat, back from his forehead. The apples of his cheeks glowed crimson and salty streaks still glistened. His eyes were puffy and red. He looked a mess, but for the first time Sherlock could see the shade of Irene lurking.

“Gabe, I was just going down to make some tea,” Mary said. “Would you like some?” Gabriel nodded. “Come on, then,” she continued, reaching for him, but he wasn’t having it. He turned away and held onto Sherlock tighter.

“It’s all right, Mary. We’ll come down,” Sherlock said, standing up with Gabriel wrapped around his torso. He pulled Gabriel’s thumb from his mouth and shifted him to his hip. “Don’t suck your thumb,” he whispered in the small boy’s ear as they walked carefully down the stairs. “You’re too big for that.”

Sherlock and Gabriel sat down at the table with John as Mary filled the kettle with water. Gabriel still sniffled, but seemed to be interested as Sherlock shifted the microscope so that he could look inside. “I hope my staying is all right, Sherlock,” Mary started. “John didn’t think you’d mind. It was just so late and with the rain, getting a cab over here is almost impossible.”

“Its fine,” Sherlock replied, reaching around to show Gabriel how to change the magnification. Redirection was the best way to handle trauma. “Just don’t hang from the chandeliers. Mrs. Hudson would be mortified in her time of life.” Mary giggled and searched for the loose tea container. She and John had been dating for the last few weeks since they’d met and she began tutoring Gabriel. She was the first one of John’s girlfriends that Sherlock hadn’t found infinitely annoying. He supposed that was because Gabriel liked her so much. He’d progressed so far in such a little amount of time that soon they would have to decide if and where to send him to school. Mycroft seemed to be in favor of setting Gabe up to go off to some privileged boarding school as soon as possible, but Sherlock knew he wasn’t going to let that happen. At least not until he was much older and could decide for himself. He’d spent far too much of his short life already being shoved off on others.

“Can Gabe have sugar in his tea so late?” Mary asked, setting a cup in front of him.

“Lots of honey and milk, please,” Gabriel replied, not waiting for Sherlock to respond. Mary smirked and arched an eyebrow, looking to Sherlock. He nodded in agreement.

She winked and set the honey in front of him. “There. Put in as much as you like.”

Gabriel upended the bottle, pouring the sticky liquid into his tea until Sherlock grabbed his hand, guiding it away. “You don’t want to chew it, Gabe.”

“I like a lot,” he whined.

“Yes, but we do want you to blink again in life,” Sherlock said.

“Hey, John,” Gabriel started, slurping his tea. “Dad said we could get a Christmas tree.”

“Excellent. We’ll have to go look for one. Maybe on the weekend.”

“I don’t understand why all you people insist on bringing things meant for outside into the house. Remember the pumpkin carving incident?”

“Pumpkin carving incident?” Mary asked, sitting on John’s lap with her teacup.

“Don’t ask,” John muttered.

“Let’s put it this way,” Sherlock began. “We’re still finding pumpkin seeds behind the couch… in the fireplace… on the ceiling…”

“Not on the ceiling.”

“Oh pardon me, on the crown molding.”

“Oh don’t be such an arse,” John snarled. “Gabe, we’ll get the biggest Christmas tree in London.”

“Hooray!” Gabriel exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air and knocking over his teacup, spilling the contents all over the table. “Oops…” Luckily there was a kitchen towel within easy reach. “I’m sorry, Dad…”

“Its fine,” he grumbled, using the towel to dry himself and the table off. “If we haven’t thrown Molly Hooper out yet, I think you’re safe.” Molly spilled something every time she came over. “I think that’s our cue to get back to bed.”

“Nooo… can’t we just stay up?” Gabriel whimpered. “I don’t want to go back to sleep. I might have that dream again.”

Sherlock sighed. He was tired and starting to lose patience. “The possibility of your slipping back into the same bad dreams are remote at best.”

“It could happen,” Gabe retorted, folding his arms over his chest.

“Tell you what. You can sleep in my room.” He lowered Gabriel to the floor and stood up. “Good night you two. Gabriel, give hugs to John and Mary.” Gabriel hugged them both, even going so far as to blow a raspberry on Mary’s cheek. Both men looked puzzled, but Mary giggled and returned it.

**OoOoOo**

Sherlock pulled the duvet back and gestured for Gabriel to climb into bed. Gabriel dove in and snuggled down under the covers. “Wow… your bed is big, Dad.”

“I need lots of room,” Sherlock replied, sliding in beside him.

“Well… you do got long legs. And big feet.”

“Thanks, I think,” he said, yawning and pulling the blanket over his shoulder.

The light coming in from the streetlamps outside was just enough for Gabriel to make out the outlines of some of the things in the room. On the far side of the bed closest to Gabriel, there was a small photograph on the bedside table. It was unframed and unobtrusive. Gabriel picked it up and brought it close to his face so he could see it better. It was a picture of a woman with dark hair and round eyes. Her lips were so red that they looked almost black in the moonlight. “Dad…”

“Uh huh?” Sherlock replied, almost asleep.

“Is this my mom?”

Sherlock turned over fast, trying to shake the sleep from his eyes. “What?”

“This picture. Is it my mom?”

Sherlock took the picture from Gabriel, not really sure what to say. Of course he couldn’t deny it. What if he asked questions? “It is,” he replied simply, handing the picture back to him.

Gabriel stared at the picture for a long time. Finally he said, “She was pretty.”

“Yes she was.”

“Can I have this?”

Sherlock nodded and lay back down.

“Thanks, Dad,” Gabriel said and snuggled up to his father, clutching the picture of Irene close to his chest. Before long, both were sleeping.


	9. A Deliberate Association

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock is having an identity crisis and Molly Hooper explains the concept of 'friends with benefits.'

It was entirely too early for Molly Hooper’s taste. She clutched her cup of coffee, warming her hands and trying to figure out a way to stay asleep as she walked down the hall toward the morgue. It’s interesting how your footfalls sound so heavy and imposing when you’re the only one in a place. With nobody around, there’s nothing to absorb the sound and you can hear the rhythm of your feet drumming out your heartbeat. It was the sound of loneliness and Molly knew it all too well. Especially in the earliest hours of morning when you were the only living person in the basement.

“5 AM,” she sighed. “What in Hell could be so important at 5 AM? For God’s sake the person’s already dead.” She wanted to blame Sherlock, but this time it wasn’t his fault. Lestrade had called her to say that they were bringing a body and needed it processed immediately. And of course, Molly Hooper wouldn’t mind coming in. She didn’t have a family or kids or anything interesting going on in her life.

“Hey, Molly,” the orderly on duty said as she punched her keycode into the door. It bleeped a decline tone accusingly.

“Hi, Andy. Day shift here already?”

“I’m pulling a twelve hour, just to help out. Early for you too isn’t it?”

“Yeah, the police need me to do an autopsy pretty quick. So I just came in early. Has the ambulance come in yet?”

“Yeah, it came in about a half hour ago. I didn’t know how long you’d be, so we just put the stiff in a drawer and I left the intake chart on your desk.”

“Thanks.” She smiled and punched the code once more, hoping the damn door would take it this time. Truth be told, she was a little uncomfortable around Andy. Not that there was anything wrong with him. He was a nice guy, but she didn’t like how he looked at her. He’d asked her out once, but she declined. It wasn’t that he was unattractive or boring. He just simply wasn’t her type. He wasn’t Sherlock Holmes. Mercifully, the door finally opened. “Anyway, see you later, Andy.”

Molly walked into the morgue and flipped the switch, the overhead lights buzzing to life. She opened the door to her office and sighed as she saw the heap of files and charts that were piled haphazardly on the desktop. Everything was such a mess. Molly hated mess, but it always seemed to find her. No matter how hard she tried, everything was always cluttered. Finally, she found the chart on her new arrival. Anderson had made a few notes, mostly illegible and obvious. “Of course it was foul play, idiot,” she grumbled. “Otherwise I wouldn’t be here at 5 in the morning.” It was so much easier when Lestrade attached notes on the body from John. Because he was a doctor, he knew what she was looking for and it helped to guide her dissection. “Well, better get started, Hooper,” she said, giving herself her morning pep talk.

It was so cold in the morgue. She shivered and immediately went for her lab coat. It wasn’t much, but it did fend off the chill. It was always a little chilly down here, for obvious reasons. It only really bothered her in the mornings when her body was still longing for the warmth of her bed. She hugged herself as she walked over to the bank of cold chambers that lined the back wall. She looked for the drawer number on the chart and groaned. Andy didn’t write it down. So now she’d get to play a game of “Guess where the corpse is!” Mentally she went through the drawers she could eliminate because they had been occupied when she left the evening before. “The only possibilities are the last two… it’s probably the one on top…” She walked over, tugging the door open with all her might. As long as Molly had this job, she’d never have to resort to a Soloflex machine. She rolled up her sleeves and slowly pulled out the tray.

She screamed bloody murder.

“Sherlock! What the hell are you doing in there?” she shrieked. He was laid out on the tray like a body, wrapped in his coat with his hands folded behind his head.

He held his head. “God, don’t scream…” he groaned. “My head is already killing me.”

“Why are you in there?”

“Would you believe I’m trying to get some sleep?”

“How long have you been in there?” Molly asked, looking worried. “I mean… it’s a cold chamber. You’ll freeze to death.”

Sherlock looked at his watch. “I’d have at least an hour before hypothermia would set in. Which is an hour longer to sleep than I’ve had in the last forty-eight hours. And I knew you’d be in before that happened.”

“I thought you never slept while you were working,” Molly said.

“That was before I spent half my life running after a five year old,” he grumbled.

“Well get up,” she scolded, smacking his arm. “I’m going to get into trouble if someone sees you.” He sat up and gracefully climbed off of the gurney. “So why haven’t you been sleeping?”

“Gabriel’s been having nightmares lately. The last two nights have been horrendous. John says it’s because he’s growing. Hormones and all that. I can’t seem to concentrate on anything and when I get home I won’t be able to just lie on the couch and think or sleep.” The words had obviously been bottled up for a while and they tumbled out of his mouth and all over Molly in a frantic wave. “There’s always someone there asking me what I’m doing or where I’m going and what should they do… For the first time, Molly… I’m tired of answering questions! I haven’t been alone in weeks. Not hours, not days… WEEKS. Whenever I’m not playing with Gabriel or reading with Gabriel or putting him in the bath or the bed, then I’m trying to work with John and your friend, Mary playing slap and tickle on the couch!”

Molly took his arm and led him to a chair. “Here, just sit down for a bit,” she said. He was acting strange. So completely UN-Sherlock and it was scary. He was coming unhinged.

“Molly… I know you think I’m terrible,” he sighed.

“Of course I don’t, Sherlock.” She smiled. “I think you sound exactly like every other parent I’ve ever known. It’s only natural that you should have some adjustment anxiety.”

“Uggh… what a dreadful word: **_parent_**. It sounds so… responsible. It doesn’t really fit me at all.”

“Oh I don’t know about that. You’ve done wonderfully so far.” She leaned on the table beside him. “Gabriel seems to be so happy. He obviously loves you to bits.”

“I know. And I love him too, it’s just that whenever I’m alone and thinking about my past history—I’m terrified. Very nearly petrified with fear that I’m not good enough for him.”

“Oh Sherlock… that’s…”

“No, its true, Molly. I’ve never had… friends before because I always just got… bored. I mean, what if I get bored with Gabriel? I wouldn’t mean to. Just like I never mean to with friends, but I wouldn’t be able to stop myself. Take his mother, for instance. My fascination with her was quick, intense and dissolved just as quickly. Once I realized that all of her cleverness was really just…engineered… I couldn’t be bothered. Do you understand what I’m saying?” He glanced up at Molly, searching for some sign of disapproval on her face and finding none. “Gabriel is just so… trusting and wonderful… he deserves to have someone that is capable of loving and caring for him the way he needs. I’m so afraid that I’m not… capable. I find myself getting impatient with him when he’s upset or doesn’t understand something. I shouted at him last night when he knocked a case file on the floor. I mean, it was an honest mistake that I might have done myself, but I was just so… frustrated. And after, I felt just terrible…”

Molly laid a hand on his shoulder to halt the endless monologue that was coming out faster and faster. She was afraid that if she didn’t stop him that he would stroke out right here on her table. “Stop. Everyone feels that way sometimes. You’re stressed. Happens to the best of us, I’m afraid.”

“I don’t want to give the impression that I’m not happy, you know. I am happy. Very happy. Deliriously happy, most of the time. I never noticed how… lonely I was, I suppose.” Sherlock made a sickened face. “Oh God… that sounds so… disgustingly sappy.”

Molly giggled. “Trust me, you’re still your obnoxious old self most of the time.”

“As always, Dr. Hooper, your wit leaves me in stitches.” Held up two fingers, one of which was still healing from the slide incident a few weeks previous, but his meaning with the gesture was not lost on Molly. She laughed again. “What do people do when they’re like this?”

She shrugged. “Find a hobby… go dancing… kick the wall… go to the gym.” She looked away, a blush rushing to her cheeks. “Friends with benefits.”

Sherlock started to respond, but it died on his lips. “Friends with what?”

Molly bit her lip, trying not to look at him and steal a glance simultaneously. “Benefits. You know, friends that sleep together without actually having a relationship.”

“Oh. That.” He sighed. “I think that’s how I got into this situation in the first place, Molly. If you could have even considered us friends. But why would I be stressed? I’m not unhappy.”

“Sherlock,” Molly started, stepping in front of him to look down into his face. She relished seeing him this way, calm and sullen. His lazy eyelids laying his sooty black lashes against his razored cheek. Every line and contour of his interesting face highlighted in the shadow cast by the harsh light overhead. “You know, sometimes getting what you want can be more stressful than not. People always think that being happy is easy but it’s really more difficult than being sad. Especially when you’re trying to make someone else happy too.” His brow crinkled as he processed her words.

“I’m sorry, Molly,” he murmured.

“For what?”

“For ever making you think that you weren’t… smart. Or good enough. It was me. It was always me.” Molly watched the shape of his lips as he spoke. So perfect in form, even down to the faded scar at the corner that only showed when he pouted.

“Well that’s the problem, isn’t it,” she replied. “It was always you, Sherlock. Is always…” She turned away, cursing the butterflies in the pit of her belly. He was confiding in her and she couldn’t stop thinking about how that perfect bow mouth might feel pressed against hers. “Anyway, just remember. A lot of people in this world never get to be happy like that.” She stumbled, bumping into the corner of the gurney as she made her way back to the cold chamber, leaving Sherlock behind. She had to get away from him. He made her breathing far too labored and her heart too fast. He could read every flush, every sharp intake of breath. Simply put, Sherlock could read Molly. He made her feel exposed.

“I’ll take it under advisement, Dr. Hooper.”

She realized that she’d left the chart across the room on the table and turned, running directly into Sherlock. God, he smelled like Heaven. Leather and stolen nicotine. “Oh! Sorry. I didn’t know you were…” He stopped her stammering with a soul-stealing kiss. His arms wound around her waist, pulling her body against his and deepening their embrace. Molly was tense, almost as if her body was unable to believe that any of this was real. But it was. It was the most real thing she’d experienced in her life thus far and she wanted it to be neverending. Slowly his mouth moved against hers, caressing first her upper lip, then the lower, nibbling and teasing each one until she gasped. When she opened her mouth, his tongue slipped past her defenses and began mingling with hers. No one had ever kissed Molly this way and she was hesitant at first, but then the taste and heat of him was too much and she found herself kissing back. She followed his lead and found he was an excellent teacher. Before long her arms were wrapped around his neck, holding him tightly as he pushed her against the cold metal of the drawer behind them. His body, so much broader and harder than it had been before, was a delicious and complicated contrast to her softness and she burrowed deeper into his arms.

“I’m… I’m sorry…” he whispered, pulling back and dropping his arms. “I don’t know why I did that.”

“It’s… fine. You’re… I mean… it’s fine.” Her eyes met his once more and she found that she couldn’t look away this time. “I uhm… have…”

“Autopsy.”

“Yes.”

“I’ll leave you to it then,” Sherlock said, the gravel still heavily coating his throat. “Good morning, Doctor Hooper.” He brushed his lips once more across the edge of her hairline and then he was gone, once again leaving her wrapped in a blanket of uncertainty and hopeless desire.


	10. A Deliberate Association

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock is having an identity crisis and Molly Hooper explains the concept of 'friends with benefits.'

It was entirely too early for Molly Hooper’s taste. She clutched her cup of coffee, warming her hands and trying to figure out a way to stay asleep as she walked down the hall toward the morgue. It’s interesting how your footfalls sound so heavy and imposing when you’re the only one in a place. With nobody around, there’s nothing to absorb the sound and you can hear the rhythm of your feet drumming out your heartbeat. It was the sound of loneliness and Molly knew it all too well. Especially in the earliest hours of morning when you were the only living person in the basement.

“5 AM,” she sighed. “What in Hell could be so important at 5 AM? For God’s sake the person’s already dead.” She wanted to blame Sherlock, but this time it wasn’t his fault. Lestrade had called her to say that they were bringing a body and needed it processed immediately. And of course, Molly Hooper wouldn’t mind coming in. She didn’t have a family or kids or anything interesting going on in her life.

“Hey, Molly,” the orderly on duty said as she punched her keycode into the door. It bleeped a decline tone accusingly.

“Hi, Andy. Day shift here already?”

“I’m pulling a twelve hour, just to help out. Early for you too isn’t it?”

“Yeah, the police need me to do an autopsy pretty quick. So I just came in early. Has the ambulance come in yet?”

“Yeah, it came in about a half hour ago. I didn’t know how long you’d be, so we just put the stiff in a drawer and I left the intake chart on your desk.”

“Thanks.” She smiled and punched the code once more, hoping the damn door would take it this time. Truth be told, she was a little uncomfortable around Andy. Not that there was anything wrong with him. He was a nice guy, but she didn’t like how he looked at her. He’d asked her out once, but she declined. It wasn’t that he was unattractive or boring. He just simply wasn’t her type. He wasn’t Sherlock Holmes. Mercifully, the door finally opened. “Anyway, see you later, Andy.”

Molly walked into the morgue and flipped the switch, the overhead lights buzzing to life. She opened the door to her office and sighed as she saw the heap of files and charts that were piled haphazardly on the desktop. Everything was such a mess. Molly hated mess, but it always seemed to find her. No matter how hard she tried, everything was always cluttered. Finally, she found the chart on her new arrival. Anderson had made a few notes, mostly illegible and obvious. “Of course it was foul play, idiot,” she grumbled. “Otherwise I wouldn’t be here at 5 in the morning.” It was so much easier when Lestrade attached notes on the body from John. Because he was a doctor, he knew what she was looking for and it helped to guide her dissection. “Well, better get started, Hooper,” she said, giving herself her morning pep talk.

It was so cold in the morgue. She shivered and immediately went for her lab coat. It wasn’t much, but it did fend off the chill. It was always a little chilly down here, for obvious reasons. It only really bothered her in the mornings when her body was still longing for the warmth of her bed. She hugged herself as she walked over to the bank of cold chambers that lined the back wall. She looked for the drawer number on the chart and groaned. Andy didn’t write it down. So now she’d get to play a game of “Guess where the corpse is!” Mentally she went through the drawers she could eliminate because they had been occupied when she left the evening before. “The only possibilities are the last two… it’s probably the one on top…” She walked over, tugging the door open with all her might. As long as Molly had this job, she’d never have to resort to a Soloflex machine. She rolled up her sleeves and slowly pulled out the tray.

She screamed bloody murder.

“Sherlock! What the hell are you doing in there?” she shrieked. He was laid out on the tray like a body, wrapped in his coat with his hands folded behind his head.

He held his head. “God, don’t scream…” he groaned. “My head is already killing me.”

“Why are you in there?”

“Would you believe I’m trying to get some sleep?”

“How long have you been in there?” Molly asked, looking worried. “I mean… it’s a cold chamber. You’ll freeze to death.”

Sherlock looked at his watch. “I’d have at least an hour before hypothermia would set in. Which is an hour longer to sleep than I’ve had in the last forty-eight hours. And I knew you’d be in before that happened.”

“I thought you never slept while you were working,” Molly said.

“That was before I spent half my life running after a five year old,” he grumbled.

“Well get up,” she scolded, smacking his arm. “I’m going to get into trouble if someone sees you.” He sat up and gracefully climbed off of the gurney. “So why haven’t you been sleeping?”

“Gabriel’s been having nightmares lately. The last two nights have been horrendous. John says it’s because he’s growing. Hormones and all that. I can’t seem to concentrate on anything and when I get home I won’t be able to just lie on the couch and think or sleep.” The words had obviously been bottled up for a while and they tumbled out of his mouth and all over Molly in a frantic wave. “There’s always someone there asking me what I’m doing or where I’m going and what should they do… For the first time, Molly… I’m tired of answering questions! I haven’t been alone in weeks. Not hours, not days… WEEKS. Whenever I’m not playing with Gabriel or reading with Gabriel or putting him in the bath or the bed, then I’m trying to work with John and your friend, Mary playing slap and tickle on the couch!”

Molly took his arm and led him to a chair. “Here, just sit down for a bit,” she said. He was acting strange. So completely UN-Sherlock and it was scary. He was coming unhinged.

“Molly… I know you think I’m terrible,” he sighed.

“Of course I don’t, Sherlock.” She smiled. “I think you sound exactly like every other parent I’ve ever known. It’s only natural that you should have some adjustment anxiety.”

“Uggh… what a dreadful word: **_parent_**. It sounds so… responsible. It doesn’t really fit me at all.”

“Oh I don’t know about that. You’ve done wonderfully so far.” She leaned on the table beside him. “Gabriel seems to be so happy. He obviously loves you to bits.”

“I know. And I love him too, it’s just that whenever I’m alone and thinking about my past history—I’m terrified. Very nearly petrified with fear that I’m not good enough for him.”

“Oh Sherlock… that’s…”

“No, its true, Molly. I’ve never had… friends before because I always just got… bored. I mean, what if I get bored with Gabriel? I wouldn’t mean to. Just like I never mean to with friends, but I wouldn’t be able to stop myself. Take his mother, for instance. My fascination with her was quick, intense and dissolved just as quickly. Once I realized that all of her cleverness was really just…engineered… I couldn’t be bothered. Do you understand what I’m saying?” He glanced up at Molly, searching for some sign of disapproval on her face and finding none. “Gabriel is just so… trusting and wonderful… he deserves to have someone that is capable of loving and caring for him the way he needs. I’m so afraid that I’m not… capable. I find myself getting impatient with him when he’s upset or doesn’t understand something. I shouted at him last night when he knocked a case file on the floor. I mean, it was an honest mistake that I might have done myself, but I was just so… frustrated. And after, I felt just terrible…”

Molly laid a hand on his shoulder to halt the endless monologue that was coming out faster and faster. She was afraid that if she didn’t stop him that he would stroke out right here on her table. “Stop. Everyone feels that way sometimes. You’re stressed. Happens to the best of us, I’m afraid.”

“I don’t want to give the impression that I’m not happy, you know. I am happy. Very happy. Deliriously happy, most of the time. I never noticed how… lonely I was, I suppose.” Sherlock made a sickened face. “Oh God… that sounds so… disgustingly sappy.”

Molly giggled. “Trust me, you’re still your obnoxious old self most of the time.”

“As always, Dr. Hooper, your wit leaves me in stitches.” Held up two fingers, one of which was still healing from the slide incident a few weeks previous, but his meaning with the gesture was not lost on Molly. She laughed again. “What do people do when they’re like this?”

She shrugged. “Find a hobby… go dancing… kick the wall… go to the gym.” She looked away, a blush rushing to her cheeks. “Friends with benefits.”

Sherlock started to respond, but it died on his lips. “Friends with what?”

Molly bit her lip, trying not to look at him and steal a glance simultaneously. “Benefits. You know, friends that sleep together without actually having a relationship.”

“Oh. That.” He sighed. “I think that’s how I got into this situation in the first place, Molly. If you could have even considered us friends. But why would I be stressed? I’m not unhappy.”

“Sherlock,” Molly started, stepping in front of him to look down into his face. She relished seeing him this way, calm and sullen. His lazy eyelids laying his sooty black lashes against his razored cheek. Every line and contour of his interesting face highlighted in the shadow cast by the harsh light overhead. “You know, sometimes getting what you want can be more stressful than not. People always think that being happy is easy but it’s really more difficult than being sad. Especially when you’re trying to make someone else happy too.” His brow crinkled as he processed her words.

“I’m sorry, Molly,” he murmured.

“For what?”

“For ever making you think that you weren’t… smart. Or good enough. It was me. It was always me.” Molly watched the shape of his lips as he spoke. So perfect in form, even down to the faded scar at the corner that only showed when he pouted.

“Well that’s the problem, isn’t it,” she replied. “It was always you, Sherlock. Is always…” She turned away, cursing the butterflies in the pit of her belly. He was confiding in her and she couldn’t stop thinking about how that perfect bow mouth might feel pressed against hers. “Anyway, just remember. A lot of people in this world never get to be happy like that.” She stumbled, bumping into the corner of the gurney as she made her way back to the cold chamber, leaving Sherlock behind. She had to get away from him. He made her breathing far too labored and her heart too fast. He could read every flush, every sharp intake of breath. Simply put, Sherlock could read Molly. He made her feel exposed.

“I’ll take it under advisement, Dr. Hooper.”

She realized that she’d left the chart across the room on the table and turned, running directly into Sherlock. God, he smelled like Heaven. Leather and stolen nicotine. “Oh! Sorry. I didn’t know you were…” He stopped her stammering with a soul-stealing kiss. His arms wound around her waist, pulling her body against his and deepening their embrace. Molly was tense, almost as if her body was unable to believe that any of this was real. But it was. It was the most real thing she’d experienced in her life thus far and she wanted it to be neverending. Slowly his mouth moved against hers, caressing first her upper lip, then the lower, nibbling and teasing each one until she gasped. When she opened her mouth, his tongue slipped past her defenses and began mingling with hers. No one had ever kissed Molly this way and she was hesitant at first, but then the taste and heat of him was too much and she found herself kissing back. She followed his lead and found he was an excellent teacher. Before long her arms were wrapped around his neck, holding him tightly as he pushed her against the cold metal of the drawer behind them. His body, so much broader and harder than it had been before, was a delicious and complicated contrast to her softness and she burrowed deeper into his arms.

“I’m… I’m sorry…” he whispered, pulling back and dropping his arms. “I don’t know why I did that.”

“It’s… fine. You’re… I mean… it’s fine.” Her eyes met his once more and she found that she couldn’t look away this time. “I uhm… have…”

“Autopsy.”

“Yes.”

“I’ll leave you to it then,” Sherlock said, the gravel still heavily coating his throat. “Good morning, Doctor Hooper.” He brushed his lips once more across the edge of her hairline and then he was gone, once again leaving her wrapped in a blanket of uncertainty and hopeless desire.


	11. Not Exactly Harlequin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock and Molly go on a date.

Molly was throwing her shoes off as she stumbled through the door of her tiny flat. Luckily the night doctor came in a bit early so she could leave. This was it. The night she’d been waiting for all these years. Amazing, for eight years she’d been waiting to go on a date with Sherlock and now that it was finally here, she was wishing for more time. The people on the tube probably thought she was on angel dust. She’d paced back and forth on the car, finally coming to rest in front of the doors, practically vibrating as she waited for them to open. Then dashing down the platform, running into vendors, an old lady with a bag full of groceries and a group of American tourists who then insisted she take their picture in front of the station.  

She shot up the stairs and into her bathroom, pulling clothes off and tossing them aside. Her tabby cat, Tobias, named after Tobias Smollett, watched with fascination as she flitted about the room. He meowed angrily, knowing that it was time to eat, but Molly didn’t pay him any mind whatsoever. She looked at the clock and considered the bathtub. “Can I take a bath in twenty minutes?” she asked the cat. He only washed a paw in reply. Taking that as a yes, she leaned over and opened both faucets, letting the tub fill with water. It probably wouldn’t do to smell like formaldehyde and disinfectant on a date.

She rushed to her closet, throwing the doors open and rummaging. She flipped through every dress she owned, looking for the perfect item. They were going shopping for Gabriel so she didn’t think something dressy was appropriate, but she didn’t want to look like she’d been slubbing around the house all day. Not to mention it was chilly outside. “Hmm… what would Ilsa wear?” Ilsa was Molly’s favorite movie character—the object of Humphrey Bogart’s desire in Casablanca. She’d seen that movie the first time when she was twelve years old and ever since she’d wished she could be the smoldering seductress. “Uggh… all of these make me look like someone’s mum.” Then she remembered a box of clothes Mary had brought over last week. They were too big for her and she thought perhaps Molly could get some use out of them. Running through the lounge, she found that they were still sitting on the dining table. “Damnit… Tobias…” she cursed, throwing the first couple of shirts aside because of their light dusting of cat hair. Evidently he’d found a new favorite place to sleep. The table and chairs was soon a wasteland of discarded clothes until she found a pair of fashionably faded jeans and a creamy white blouse, very bohemian in style. “I think I can do something with this,” she sighed. “Shit! The bath!”

She ran down the tiny corridor and got to the bath just in time to keep the water from running over the sides. Molly caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and stopped. She stood there in her underwear, examining her body. She stood up straight, pushing her breasts forward and using her arms to press them together. They weren’t enormous, but they weren’t non-existent. Her hips weren’t what you’d call roomy but they were adequate. She suddenly realized that she always hid her body under meters of fabric. She knew she was self-conscious about the way she looked, but now, standing here in front of the mirror, she was wondering what all the fuss was about. Why shouldn’t she be proud of how she looked? How much of her life had she wasted fretting about how she looked to other people? “New leaf tonight, Molly Hooper. It either works or it doesn’t. After tonight… it’s enough,” she told herself. “Enough.”

**OoOoOo**

“But I just got new shoes,” Gabriel whined, scrunching his face as a brush was jerked roughly through his hair. “Why do I need more?” He hated shoes. If he had his way, he’d never wear them again. The strings were his nemesis.

“Because it was the first thing that came to mind, okay?” Sherlock answered. “Just give me a small break and take the shoes.” He sighed. “Your hair is inexplicable.”

Gabriel giggled. “So’s yours.”

“I know,” he replied, dropping the brush and pushing his fingers through his own wet hair. He stared at himself in the mirror wondering what in Hell he was doing. What difference did it make what he was wearing or how his hair looked? It probably wouldn’t make much difference either way, and besides, Molly Hooper had seen him a thousand times. Why should tonight be so different? Not to mention, it wasn’t exactly a date. Not in the normal sense of the word. He was going to buy shoes for a child. And said child was coming along. So why should he be worried about whether his hair looked weird or if he was wearing the right outfit? He was Sherlock Fucking Holmes. He didn’t care about all of that unimportant rubbish. Right?

“I think you should wear this,” Gabriel said, interrupting the tempest of thoughts swirling around in his brain. The boy held up a pair of jeans that John had bought him years ago for Christmas. They still had the tags on them.

“Hmm…. Really? Jeans?”

“Why not?”

“I don’t usually… it’s not really me.”

Gabriel stared at the garment and back at his father. “I think Doctor Molly will like them.”

“No she won’t. Why would she?”

“They’ll look sexy.” Gabriel giggled wildly, throwing the jeans across the end of Sherlock’s bed.

Sherlock chuckled. “Such a smart arse… we’ll have to stop leaving you alone with John.” Of course, it didn’t stop him from pulling on the jeans.

“Ow… help… Dad…”

Sherlock turned to see that Gabriel was attempting to pull his jumper on without much success. Both arms were through one arm hole and his head was stuck in the neck hole. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing out loud, but it was a struggle. Poor Gabe hadn’t quite mastered the art of dressing himself. He did all right as long as it didn’t have to go over his head or the buttons weren’t too small. “Sorry, Gabe. I’m afraid your head is going to have to come off.”

“Daaaadddd…” he whimpered.

Sherlock was disentangling the sleeves from Gabriel’s arm when he heard the knock at the front door. “Okay, just pull it off all the way. I have to get the door.” He left Gabriel and sprinted down the hall and down the stairs, forgetting that he was still shirtless. He pulled the door open and Molly Hooper was standing on his doorstep with her mouth hanging agape. “Hi Molly.” He opened the door wider and waved her inside, the cold, late November air reminding him that he was half-naked. “Sorry, Mrs. Hudson is still away. You weren’t waiting long were you?”

“Uhm… no… no. I just got here. The cab… shit… I forgot to tell him to wait.”

“It’s okay. We’ll get another. Come on up.” As they arrived at the top of the stairs, Gabriel ran in from the bedroom, clutching his jumper in his hand. “We had a little wardrobe malfunction. It’ll just be a minute.”

Molly smiled. “It’s okay.”

Gabriel threw himself against Molly, hugging her around the waist and looking up at her. “Dad said he was going to have to take my head off.”

“Oh I don’t think that will be necessary. For one thing, they’re impossible to get back on. I should know. I do pos—“ She stopped herself and laughed nervously. “Here, let me help you with it.” Sherlock watched as Molly helped Gabriel put the jumper on. He’d never seen her look so… put together. Her clothes fit, for one thing, hugging her frame and accentuating her femininity rather than hiding it like she normally did. Her hair hung loose around her shoulders and though she wore makeup, it didn’t appear that she had made a special effort. This Molly wasn’t hiding in her clothes or trying to impress.

Sherlock left them in the lounge struggling with Gabriel’s jumper. Now to find himself something to wear on top. He chose a crisp white shirt, tailored but still casual. With a last look in the mirror and a tousle of his hair, he was ready. He hoped. For what, he wasn’t sure. This… whatever it was with Molly would be either a disaster or another turning point.

**OoOoOo**

“There you are,” Molly said, tugging Gabriel’s jumper down over his button-up. “You look very layered and fashionable.”

“Thanks, Doctor Molly.” He took her hand and led her over to the couch. “I want to show you the picture of you I drew.”

“Oh? You drew a picture of me?”

“Yeah. I had to do something quiet today because telly was irritating Dad while he was thinking.” He opened the small drawer on the coffee table and pulled out a big drawing pad. He flipped through the pages until he found the one he was looking for. “Here it is.” He held the pad up for Molly to take.

“Oh, Gabriel! This is a wonderful picture. Tell me everything about it.” She sat down beside him and let him point out the people on the paper. The background of the picture was obviously Baker Street. There were lots of buildings pushed together. She recognized the black door that read ‘221B’ and the red awning of the sandwich shop next door. “I tried to get everybody in the picture. There’s me.” He pointed to a short figure with lots of squiggles for hair and big eyes.

“Yes, I thought that must be you. I recognized your hair,” Molly giggled. “Who is that holding your hand?”

“That’s Mrs. Hudson. See, she’s wearing her flowery dress.”

“Oh I see. She has a big smile.” The Mrs. Hudson figure had an exaggerated red smile that showed all of her teeth.

“Yeah, Mrs. Hudson smiles a lot. That’s my favorite thing about her. The nuns at St. Christopher’s never smiled.” He shrugged. “I didn’t used to smile much either.” He pointed at another figure. “There’s John. He’s kissing Mary on the cheek.”

“You made him shorter,” Molly observed.

Gabriel shrugged. “Well John is short. At least, that’s what my dad says.”

“Where is he in the picture? Your dad?”

Gabriel pointed to the figure that was most definitely Sherlock. He was taller than anyone else on the page and was wearing his purple scarf. Gabriel had even given the Sherlock figure more detailed features with gray, almond-shaped eyes and a smirk that was so characteristic of him that Molly laughed in spite of herself. “He’s the tallest. I tried to get his hair right, but the pencil wouldn’t do what I wanted it to.”

“You did beautifully.” There was only one other person in Gabriel’s picture, so she assumed it had to be herself. “Is this me?”

“Yeah. I tried to make you as pretty as you are for real. You and dad are holding hands.”

Molly blushed and hugged Gabriel. “Thank you, Gabe. Too bad you aren’t about thirty years older. I’d keep you all to myself.” She examined the picture, noticing how well Gabe had captured all of them perfectly, even with his childish strokes. It was obvious that he had picked out his favorite thing about each one of them and made it the most prominent feature. The figure of Sherlock was the tallest not just because he was tall, but because Gabriel held him above all others. The thought gave Molly that fluttery feeling in her belly and she hugged Gabe tighter. “And I see you’ve written something at the bottom of the paper. What does it say?”

“It says ‘My Family’. I have a book called that and I copied it from the cover. That book says that a family is the people you live with, but I don’t think that’s true.”

“Oh?”

“No. I lived with the nuns at St. Christopher’s, but they weren’t my family. I think your family are people that you love who love you back.”

Molly smiled. “I think you’re absolutely right, Gabriel Holmes.”

“I was going to put Greg on there too, but I couldn’t fit him on the picture. Dad said I could draw him later and paste it on the end. And I might draw my mum up in the sky.”

“Your mum?”

“Yeah. Dad gave me a picture of her. I wish I had got to meet her.” Gabriel looked thoughtful. Molly could tell that he was so very curious about Irene Adler, but still wasn’t sure how much he could ask Sherlock. As long as she lived, Molly would never forget the look on Sherlock’s face when he identified her body in the morgue that Christmas. He looked so sad and confused. It broke her heart. “She was so pretty. Dad says she left me because she didn’t think she could take care of me. Do you think that’s true?”

“I’m sure she thought she was doing what was best for you. She just wanted to make sure you were safe.”

“I guess. I see kids at the park with their mums sometimes. It might be nice to have a mum someday. This one kid asked me why I didn’t have one and I said that she was dead and that I lived with my dad and my John. He thought that was weird.”

“Your John?” Molly giggled at Gabe’s strange title. “Why do you call him _your_ John?”

“Because he’s not my dad. He’s not my uncle. He’s my John.” Gabe shrugged then laughed. “I heard this kid’s mum talking to another mum and she said that I had two daddies. So I just walked up to her and said, ‘No I don’t. I have one daddy and one John.’ She turned red and walked away. I know she thought I was rude, but I thought it was rude that she was talking about me.” Molly laughed again, gathering Gabriel into her arms and squeezing him tight. He was so much like Sherlock it was a little spooky. Extremely perceptive and completely unfiltered, but there was the sweetness of a child to temper it. She found herself wondering if Sherlock had ever had that or if he was just as abrasive when he was five.

“Are you both ready?” Sherlock appeared in the lounge and both turned when he spoke. Molly started to answer, but upon seeing Sherlock, all words died on her lips. He stood there looking like some sort of God in blue jeans. The outfit was so casual, but it couldn’t hide the complicated geography of his form. His tailored white shirt was open at the neck, exposing the elegant slope and the hollow at the base. Though Sherlock was lean, she could see the gentle hills and valleys of a muscular torso beneath the fabric. His darkened curls were still damp from his shower and fell in a perfectly haphazard mess across his forehead, framing those bizarrely exotic eyes and bas relief cheekbones. As he walked toward them, she inhaled his scent, letting it fill her up. The leathery, spiced sweetness acted as an intoxicant and when Gabriel let her go to take his father’s hand, Molly stumbled. “Molly. Are you all right?”

“Yes,” she replied. “I think I stood up too fast.”

Sherlock nodded. “Shall we go?”

**OoOoOo**

The shop was packed when they got there. It was one of those places that Sherlock hated. An enormous clothing shop that always seemed to be swarming with people. This one, in particular, because it specialized in clothes for children. The first week Gabriel lived at Baker Street, Sherlock had taken him to this store one afternoon and handed him over to the salesperson. She picked out an entire wardrobe for the child, including underwear, shoes and a new coat. All Sherlock had to do was hand over his card. This time, however, the pre-Christmas rush had already set in and there were people everywhere.

“Wow… it’s crazy in here,” Molly said.

“It’s always like this,” Sherlock said, holding tight to Gabriel’s hand. The shops were so loud. John thought that he conveniently forgot to go for the shopping just to be a pain, but Sherlock literally shut down in situations like this. There were so many people, rushing about and all talking at the same time. There was a din of noise that just went on and on. Everything was too bright with too much color. He just couldn’t handle it. And looking at Gabriel, he could see that this was evidently genetic. As they walked into the section with the kids’ shoes, Gabe jerked his hand away from Sherlock’s and covered his ears.

“All right, Gabe?” Molly asked.

“It’s just too loud,” he replied with a shrug.

“I know exactly what you mean,” Molly replied. “Let’s get it done quick so we can eat. I’m sooo hungry.”

Gabriel nodded, “Me too.” He took both their hands and let them lead him toward the wall of little boy shoes. It was a little less chaotic in this corner of the room. Enough that Gabriel broke away from the two adults and ran over to where the trainers were lined up against the wall. “I like these ones,” Gabe said, holding up a pair of red canvas trainers.

Molly giggled. “Gabriel, those are much too big.”

“Not to mention that they’ll be useless in the winter,” Sherlock said. “Don’t you agree, Molly?”

“Absolutely. Your feet will get wet if you have to walk through the snow.”

Gabriel sighed. “That’s what Wellies are for.”

“You don’t have any of those either.” Sherlock picked up a pair of clunky brown shoes. “You could be all stylish and outdoorsy.”

“Don’t make him wear those,” Molly scolded. “Those are too much for a little boy.” She leaned in and whispered to Sherlock. “Just let him have the red ones.”

“They aren’t practical,” he said.

“Neither are…” She checked the pricetag. “70 pound shoes for a kid who will outgrow them in three months. I mean, if your feet are any indication, then he’ll be able to wear them for a minute and a half.”

Sherlock smirked. “Point taken.” He followed Molly around the store, listening to her chatter about the different shoes.

**OoOoOo**

Gabriel watched them walk away and he picked up the red shoes again, tucking them under his arm. He wandered around, stopping to look at the different items for sale. Soon he was beyond the borders of the shoe department and had worked his way over to where there were hundreds of fleece jumpers and hoodies all lined up on the racks. He could still hear his father’s voice, so he continued to venture further into the back of the store.

As he was flipping through a rack of clothes, Gabriel noticed a small girl about his age staring at him with wide brown eyes. She waved to him and he waved back. She smiled and walked toward him, her red pigtails bouncing. “Hello,” she said. “My name is Katie. What’s yours?”

Gabriel wrinkled his nose. She sounded weird. The way she pronounced her words was very different from him. “Gabriel.”

“Hi, Gabriel.”

“Hey.” He turned back to the clothes rack and pulled out a shirt with LONDON emblazoned across the chest in big block letters. “What do you think about this one?” he asked Katie.

“I like it.”

Gabriel giggled. “Your voice sounds funny.”

“So’s yours.”

“Do you live here?”

Katie nodded. “Yeah. My Daddy’s an airline pilot and he just got a new job. So we live here now. I used to live in New York. In America.”

“Oh.”

“I think I’ve seen you before,” she continued. “Do you play at the park with the big red slide?”

“Sometimes, I guess. It’s near my house. The one with the big castle in the middle, right?”

“Yeah. It’s near my house too. Where do you live?”

“I live at 221B Baker Street. I’m here with my dad and Molly. I’m supposed to be looking at shoes, but I got bored.”

“Who is Molly?”

“She’s my dad’s friend.”

“His girlfriend?” Kate asked, giggling, putting both hands over her mouth.

Gabriel shrugged. He knew Dr. Molly liked his dad but he wasn’t sure if she was his girlfriend. He didn’t think they had kissed each other and she didn’t sleep over like Mary did with John sometimes. “I don’t know. They like each other.”

“She’s not your mom?”

“No. My mum is dead. I never met her before.”

“Oh,” Kate replied. “My mom’s just over there.” She turned around and noticed that they were alone in the corner of the store. “Uh oh… where’s my mom?” The little girl’s eyes got bigger and her lip started to tremble. “She was over there.”

Gabriel dropped the shirt and walked over to Kate. “What does she look like?”

“She’s got brown hair and she wears glasses. She had my little brother in a stroller.” Kate was starting to cry as she realized that her mom was out of her range of seeing and hearing. Gabe was taller than the girl, so he stood up on the tips of his toes to see if he could see her, but no such luck. “Do you see her?” she asked with a watery voice.

“No. I don’t even see my dad anymore.” Gabe didn’t panic. John and Mary had made sure that he knew his address, all the mobile phone numbers and how to call a cab before they took him anywhere. He felt certain that he could get back to Baker Street if he was lost. This little girl clearly hadn’t had that tutelage. “Don’t worry, Kate. We’ll find her. Why did you come to the store in the first place?”

“Uhm… I needed a dress to wear to church on Christmas.”

“Then she’s probably over on the side with the girls’ stuff.” Gabriel took her hand and started walking toward the other side of the store.

**OoOoOo**

“So Mary seems to be pretty taken with John,” Molly said, idling looking through a rack of clothes. “She talks about him non-stop.”

“So it would seem,” Sherlock replied. “She’s always at the flat. Look at this…” He held up a pair of shoes that had wheels on the bottom. “Is this for people that want to kill their children?”

Molly laughed. “You know kids. Always hurting themselves.” She smiled, watching Sherlock with a clinical interest. He was clearly uncomfortable in this environment and she hoped it wasn’t because of her. For God’s sake, they’d known each other for years. There was no reason why they couldn’t talk like friends. “You know, Sherlock… I wanted to ask you…”

“About?”

“Well… the other day, in the mortuary…”

Sherlock paused, looking around. “Where’s Gabriel?”

Damnit! Did he even hear her? “What?”

“Gabriel. He’s gone.” Sherlock dropped the pair of shoes and began rushing around the section. He looked panic-stricken, and suddenly Molly was ashamed for her momentary annoyance. She followed after him, taking his arm to keep up. “Gabriel!” he called, prompting several of the patrons to turn around and stare. He started into the crowd of people milling around the sale racks and cash registers, pushing them aside and examining every little boy with dark hair within reach.

“Gabriel!” Molly cried out, edging through the tightly packed aisles. “Wait, Sherlock… maybe we should split up to look for him. He can’t have gone far. We only looked away for a minute.”

“Just long enough for a psycho to snatch him. How many dead children have you seen in the morgue? Kids that just wandered off at the supermarket? Or on the playground?”

Molly grabbed his hands and pulled him toward her, looking up into his eyes. “Just calm down. Gabriel’s a smart kid. He wouldn’t leave the shop. He’s here somewhere, okay?” She smiled, actually feeling him relax. He nodded. “You stay here and I’ll go to the desk and ask the clerk if she’s seen him.”

Before Molly could get away, a tall woman with a stroller walked up to them, leading two children behind her. “Pardon me, I think this belongs to you.”

Molly gasped and rushed Gabriel, gathering him in her arms and kissing his cheeks. “Yes! Thank you so much!”

“I thought he must belong to you,” the woman said, ignoring Molly and addressing Sherlock. “He looks just like you. He and my daughter Kate got lost. Your Gabriel helped her find us.” Molly observed as the woman practically drooled on Sherlock’s sleeve. Not that she could blame her. He struck quite an intriguing figure and from her accent Molly could tell she was American. American women were bound to love someone like Sherlock. “They told me that you all live just around the corner from us. We’re on Downing.”

“Fascinating,” Sherlock replied, not really paying attention. He turned to Molly and reached for Gabriel, examining him thoroughly. “You can’t wander around in the shop,” he said, smoothing Gabe’s hair. “You scared us to death.”

“Well I had to help Kate find her mom. You would have wanted me to, Dad! And she gave me clues and I followed them to where her mom was!”

“He did a good job, Mr. Holmes,” Kate said, her big brown eyes fixed on Gabriel. Clearly the little girl was just as smitten as the mom. She turned to her mother. “Hey Mom, Gabriel plays at the park with the castle too!”

“Oh really?” The mother smiled sweetly, batting her eyelashes. “Then perhaps we’ll see Gabriel and his father again soon.”

Molly rolled her eyes and grabbed Sherlock’s arm, jerking him toward the door.


	12. A Heated Conversation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock and Molly get too close on the sofa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: As always, I own nothing except Gabriel.

The kid was no paperweight. Sherlock was well aware of this fact as he hoisted Gabriel’s sleeping form out of the cab and into his arms. “Could you possibly… the cab fare’s in my pocket…” he said, turning so that Molly could grab the notes from the pocket of his coat.

“No… I’ve got it. You paid for dinner. Besides, I suppose I need him to take me home.”

“Don’t you want to come up for a bit? I’m sure John and Mary aren’t here.” As soon as he said this, he felt awkward. What would they talk about? All through dinner, they had mostly talked to and about Gabriel. At least until he’d passed out in the booth at Angelo’s. Once they were upstairs, they’d be alone. They’d have to actually talk. To one another. And not about murders or corpses or cases. As John had told him, those topics aren’t suitable for dates. Of course, having only observed John on one date that ended pretty badly, Sherlock wasn’t sure that he was an expert either. He mentally kicked himself. _This is ridiculous, Sherlock. It’s Molly Hooper. Doctor Molly. A person you’ve known for more than eight years. She’s been to the flat dozens of times and has even fallen asleep on your couch. Oh, and there was that ‘helped you fake your own death’ thing. Stop being such a puss._ “And wine. I have this huge bottle of wine that Mycroft brought ages ago that I’ll never drink on my own and John doesn’t like it.”

“Well… if you’re sure…” Molly stammered.

“Of course I’m sure. Come on. Pay the cabbie.”

Sherlock ambled toward the door, trying not to bounce Gabriel too much as he fumbled for his key. The little boy let out a sleepy sigh as Sherlock shifted him to his hip, but he did not wake. “Wow… he’s really out of it,” Molly observed. “He must have been really tired.”

“Yes, he was up earlier than usual because he had to go with me to Bart’s this morning and then he didn’t have much time to nap in the afternoon. He’ll be dead for a while.” The cold made the door latch stick a little and Sherlock had to push it with his shoulder to get it open. Still Gabe didn’t stir. Molly chuckled as the boy’s limp body bounced, his head lolling back and forth as they climbed the stairs. He was completely unaware.

“Oh to be that trusting that you’d just sleep anywhere,” she commented.

“You laugh, but he slept like this at Scotland Yard the other day.” Sherlock pulled off his coat and scarf, throwing them carelessly over the chair. “You know where everything is, just make yourself at home while I get rid of this.” She nodded as he sprinted up the back stairs and into Gabe’s bedroom. Carefully, he set the little boy down in front of him as he sat on the edge of the bed. Gabe wobbled on his feet and Sherlock had to place his hands around the child’s waist to steady him. “We have to get you into bed, Gabriel,” Sherlock whispered, pulling his arms through the sleeves of his jumper.

Gabriel yawned. “But I’m not tired. I want to stay up with you and Doctor Molly…” he murmured, his eyes closing even as he said it.

“Oh yeah? Not at all?”

“Nuh uh…” Gabriel replied, letting his father pull his shirt off while simultaneously trying to kick off his shoes.

“There is a copious amount of evidence to the contrary. Rubbery limbs, slurred speech, half-closed eyes… you’re either sleepy or you had too much to drink at Angelo’s.”

Sherlock’s joke was lost on Gabriel as the child was almost asleep again. He only reacted to whine as his father inevitably chose the wrong pajamas again. In fact, he hastily grabbed a t-shirt—the one Gabriel wore on his first night at Baker Street—from the basket of unfolded clothes in the corner and began tugging it over Gabe’s head.“I want the skully ones…”

“What difference does it make? The skull ones are in the wardrobe.”

“They’re my favorite.”

Sherlock shook his head and finished putting the shirt on him before standing up and pulling back the blankets. Gabriel was still whining when he climbed into bed and Sherlock was just ignoring him. It was always best just to ignore him when he was like this. He’d continue to whine and complain until he was unconscious. Genetics were a bitch. “Good night, Gabriel,” he said, leaning over to kiss his forehead.

He mumbled a nearly unintelligible, “Love you, Dad.” Sherlock smiled. This was a new addition to their ritual that had, at first, made him a little uneasy. As a child, affection was neither encouraged nor appreciated. He could recall exactly how many times that he’d told someone that he loved them and it was a number that could be enumerated on one hand. And none of those times could he be heard by the intended recipient.

“Love you, Gabriel,” he said, allowing the tips of his fingers to linger on the child’s cheek for a few seconds before turning to go downstairs.

“Dad… kiss Doctor Molly for me…”

Sherlock stopped dead in the doorway, nearly stumbling over the end of his shoe. He started to reply, but thought better of it.

**OoOoOo**

Molly sat down on the couch, staring around the familiar room. She couldn’t believe how much warmer this place was now that Gabriel was here. She’d always found Sherlock and John’s flat to be an interesting place, but you were never sure what would happen if you opened up the fridge. Before it had been so scattered and haphazard with nothing ever in its place. Now, it was always neat and all the body parts were stowed in a tiny refrigerator locked up in Sherlock’s room. Gabriel’s various drawings and writings were attached to the corkboard in the kitchen and there was a small wooden cupboard in the corner full of his toys and art supplies. Simply put, this place had become a home rather than a dwelling. Molly’s chest felt tight and her stomach rolled over as she considered this. Ever since the first moment she’d ever seen Sherlock—when he was strung out, waifish and almost hostile in his defiance of everyone and everything—she’d loved him. He was the most fascinating thing she’d ever seen and she could feel that there was more to him than the hardened, cold exoskeleton. But it had always been a very primal, lusty sort of love. Since his “death,” she’d gained a deeper understanding of him and the deceiving nature of his indifference. It was endearing and Molly realized that even if nothing ever happened between them, that he would carry her wasted heart forever.

The silence was killing her. She thought about turning on the television, but it didn’t seem the thing to do. Another remote sat on the coffee table with STEREO written in marker down the side. She picked it up and immediately music began to play. Something soft with a lot of lazy piano that she recognized from several years previous. She was careful not to turn it up too loud, knowing that Gabriel was asleep, or not far from it, upstairs. Wandering into the kitchen, she opened the refrigerator and saw the bottle of wine Sherlock had been talking about. Reading the label, it was something expensive, Italian and red. Three of her favorite qualities in wine.

“I see you found it.” Molly turned to see Sherlock standing in the doorway of the kitchen, leaning against the frame.

“I did,” she replied, clenching her free hand into a tight fist to keep from reaching up and twirling the end of her hair around her fingertips. It was a nervous habit that she always seemed to be doing whenever he was around. God, he was beautiful. Tonight even moreso than usual. He was casual and he seemed to be seeing her for the first time. Really seeing her. Usually when Sherlock looked at her, she could tell that he was miles away, thinking about something else. But tonight, when he looked at her he was focused. His eyes were almost always that cold blue green but tonight they seemed darker. Almost warm. Tonight Sherlock seemed to be looking at her the way she always looked at him. “I might need some help with the cork.”

He nodded and took the bottle from her. “There are wine glasses in the cupboard over the sink.” She stood up on her tip toes, her fingers able to just brush the stem. Sherlock chuckled and sidled up behind her, reaching over her head to retrieve the glasses. “Need some help?”

“Yes,” she giggled. “Thank you.” He poured both of them generous glassfuls of wine and Molly gasped. “Mr. Holmes! Are you trying to get me tipsy so you can take advantage of me?”

“You’ve figured me out, Dr. Hooper. But I do hope you won’t hold it against me.” He smiled and held the glass out to her.

She took it and wandered over to the couch, flopping down and kicking her shoes off before curling them under herself. “So I’ve never asked, what happened to the wall?” She gestured toward the yellow smiley face accented with bullet holes.

“Just a… little… manic episode,” he replied.

Molly smiled and nodded. “I do that sometimes. Get just absolutely crazy and do things I regret.”

“Like dating psychopaths?” Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow as he took a swallow of his wine.

“In my defense, I didn’t know he was a psychopath. Perhaps you should have let me in on that one.”

“I tried…”

“You said he was gay!”

“Well… he’s gay too. A gay psychopath. It’s not all that unusual.”

“Admit it, you missed it,” Molly teased.

“I didn’t miss it,” he replied, taking another sip.

“You did. I could have been killed. He could have drowned me in the bath and skinned all the flesh off my bones to make a woman suit.”

They paused momentarily before both burst into laughter. “Shh… we’re going to wake Gabriel…” he hissed. They slipped into an easy conversation that covered everything from John and Mary’s relationship to music. Molly found herself just listening to Sherlock talk, amazed by his new capacity to open up, laugh at himself and express some tiny shred of humility. She was learning so much about him, things that made him so human. And if it was possible, her heart ached for him even more than it had before. She found herself just staring into his face until finally he stopped speaking and looked away, obviously self-conscious. “I’ve been talking for nearly an hour and you’ve barely said a word. Sorry…”

“No, please… I was just listening to you. You’re just so… different. I’m a little in awe of you.”

“What do you mean?”

“You never used to talk this much. At least, not to me. And you never revealed anything about yourself.” She grinned, finishing her glass of wine. “You’ve come a long way, Mr. Holmes.”

“Maybe it’s Gabriel. I guess I just realized that I didn’t want to saddle him with that… cold indifference. I don’t want him to be alone. You know, those two years that I was gone… I thought I’d feel differently. I could finally just retreat into my own head and not bother with all that extraneous noise. But once I got there, I just felt… empty. I couldn’t think. I didn’t even want to…”

“Love is the worst kind of drug, Sherlock,” Molly whispered. “Once you have a little, you need more and more. Even when it hurts, you still need it. After my dad died, I thought I’d never want to love anyone ever again. It just hurt too much. If you don’t have it, you can’t lose it, right?”

“Exactly.”

Molly smiled sadly, nodding. “It doesn’t exactly work though, does it? Because invariably someone comes into your life and you’re just… drawn to them. You find yourself loving them even when you shouldn’t. Even when you don’t want to.” Molly stopped, unsure if she wanted to continue with this line of conversation. She reached for the wine bottle and poured herself another glass of wine. “Even when other people tell you to give up on them. Hell, your own head telling you to. But you can’t help it.”

It was Sherlock’s turn to stare. She could feel him watching her reaction, deciphering her body language. Did he know that she was talking about him? Her father had been the only person Molly had in the world and when he was gone, she had just assumed that she would never be able to love anyone again. That loneliness was a fatal disease to which she would eventually succumb. But then she met Sherlock and even though he was an infuriating git who always made her feel small and silly, with one glance he had planted a tiny seed of hope in Molly Hooper’s desolate heart.

“I am sorry, Molly.”

“For what?”

“That night. That last night before… when you said that you didn’t count. I’m so sorry, Molly. I never meant to let you think you weren’t important to me. I’ve never really been on the receiving end of love or friendship, but I know plenty about rejection. I learned a long time ago that it’s just easier to never let anyone close. It’s a hard habit to break and I do apologize.”

“Wow…” Molly said. “That makes three times you’ve apologized to me. Do I win some kind of award now?”

Sherlock smiled. “Just my thanks.”

“For what?”

“For not giving up on me. Even when I deserved it.” Sliding closer to her, he leaned in to kiss her cheek. Just a gentle brushing of his lips against the crest of her cheekbone, but he lingered. She turned her head and their noses brushed against one another, their mouths just barely touching. There was a moment, brief but excruciating, when Molly was sure that he would pull away, realizing that it had all been a gigantic mistake brought on by too much wine. But he didn’t, capturing her mouth in a kiss she could feel all the way down to her toes. Her lips parted slightly and every breath she took was his as they moved slowly together. One arm around her waist pulled her body closer to his as he took her wineglass from her, setting it aside. “Is this ok?” he asked.

Molly found she couldn’t speak, so instead she merely nodded and arched her neck, reaching for another kiss. He pulled her arm around his neck, holding it there as he kissed her again. This time there was an urgency and confidence that had not been there before. When he closed his mouth over hers, he stole her breath. She could taste the bittersweet wine on his lips and she feathered her tongue lightly across the inside of his lip, enjoying the exotic flavor as it mixed with her own. He drew her tongue into his mouth, teasing her to play along. The single most erotic sensation Molly had felt to date. “You’re uhm…very good at that,” Molly stammered. “Did you read that in a book or something?”

Sherlock smirked. “No… I practiced. But shhh… don’t tell Mary. She’d be pissed off.”

Molly giggled, picturing Sherlock tackling John and kissing him soundly. “I promise. Mum’s the word.” This time she kissed him, anxious to feel the closeness of his body again. He was quick to oblige and soon Molly found herself reclining beneath him. His fingertips brushed her hair away from her face and his lips found her cheek, kissing down the sharp line of her jaw to the hollow just under her ear. He was so close that she could hear a low purring as he took the fleshy bit of her earlobe between his teeth, nibbling gently. She wasn’t sure if it was him or her because he definitely made her want to purr. His hand slid over her shoulder and down her arm, drawing a shiver. Just that simple touch and she wanted more. Wanted him to touch her everywhere. A gentle tug of the wide collar on her peasant blouse exposed a shoulder and immediately Sherlock was tracing the soft curve with a burning line of kisses that ended at her collarbone. Molly pulled her leg over his hip, involuntarily arching her body against his and relishing the sensation of his center pressing against her. Could it be possible that he wanted her? Molly Hooper? That she was the cause of the deep growling in his throat, the sharp intake of breath and that masculine hardness that was quickly becoming obvious? Did his blood race and boil like hers? Did his mouth water for her kiss?

“Dr. Hooper…” he rasped against her ear. “Do you want to stay? Because if you don’t… we’d better call you a cab. Now.” His voice was barely a whisper, but its ferocity was almost frightening.

“Mr. Holmes… what kind of girl do you think I am?” she teased. He smiled and started to reply, when a croaky voice came from behind them.

“Dad… I don’t feel well…”


	13. The Plague

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Gabriel is very ill.

Sherlock backed off of Molly, trying to hide the pained growl. “Just a second, Gabe,” he rasped, not wanting to let on how affected he was by the encounter. Molly sat up, straightening her shirt, her cheeks glowing with embarrassment. Her lips were swollen and pink from his kisses and her breathing still came in sharp gasps. He closed his eyes, trying to shake the haze of arousal and seeing her like that, still so warm and eager was not helping.

Gabriel stumbled down the tiny corridor and into the living room. He was rubbing his eyes as he negotiated around the coffee table, going to Sherlock, seeming blissfully unaware that he’d interrupted the beginning stages of foreplay. “Dad,” Gabriel whined.

Sherlock embraced the little boy against his side. “What’s the matter?”

“My head hurts.” As if to emphasize the point, he rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. “My tummy too.”

“All right then. We can fix that.” He brushed Gabriel’s stray curls away from his face, noticing that they were soaked with sweat. Leaning in, he pressed his lips to Gabriel’s forehead, feeling the feverish heat that emanated from his skin. “Your temperature is elevated,” he observed. “Come on, let’s get you some paracetamol and tuck you back into bed.” He mouthed _‘just a minute_ ’ over Gabriel’s head as he steered him toward the kitchen. Molly smiled and nodded, sinking back into the cushions.

Sherlock fumbled around in the cupboard over the refrigerator until he found the small bottle of liquid paracetamol and a measuring spoon that John had brought home in Gabriel’s first week at Baker Street. Being a doctor, he had insisted that they have a complete first aid kit and medicine cabinet fully equipped with child-friendly medicines. He read the directions quickly, anxious to get this little hiccup dealt with so that he could get back to Molly. He poured the thick, purple liquid into the measuring spoon and handed it to Gabriel. He looked at it blankly and then back to Sherlock. “Can I have something to drink?”

“Oh. Yes… sorry…” Sherlock stammered, turning to the fridge and finding one of those juice boxes with the straw in the door. He pulled the tiny plastic straw off the back and tried stabbing it into the tiny hole at the top. Apparently the little foil covering was made of titanium and after several attempts, he only succeeded in breaking the straw. He cursed loudly in French before going to the counter and using a knife to open the top of the pouch. He squeezed the contents into a glass and handed it to Gabriel. “Drink up,” he said.

“I don’t like this stuff, Dad,” Gabriel croaked pitifully. “It tastes terrible.”

“Medicine is supposed to taste terrible. Otherwise they’d call it candy.” Gabriel wrinkled his nose at Sherlock. “Come on, just swallow it quick and chase it with that apple juice syrup.”

“Daaadd…”

“Well what do you want me to do, Gabriel? You said you felt bad and I’m giving you something to make it better. If you don’t take the medicine, you won’t feel better.” Sherlock was trying not to sound annoyed, but it was a struggle. Gabriel took a deep breath and turned up the measuring spoon, swallowing the contents with a look of utter disgust. He drank the juice fast, swirling it around in his puffed cheeks before swallowing, trying desperately to wash the taste of the medicine out of his mouth. “There. That wasn’t so bad was it?”

Gabriel glared.

“All right, let’s get you back into bed.” He picked the little boy up and he immediately nestled against Sherlock’s shoulder. He waved pitifully at Molly as they passed by on their way to the stairs.

“Good night, Gabriel,” she said. “I hope you feel better.”

Sherlock ascended the stairs, carrying Gabriel who had begun to whimper. “My head hurts so bad, Daddy.” He never used this term unless he was terrified or hurting.

“I know, Gabe. Hopefully the medicine will help soon.” He set the boy down in his bed and rearranged the covers around him again. “Try to sleep.”

“Can’t you stay with me?” Gabriel whined. “Until I go to sleep?”

“What about Dr. Molly? I can’t just leave her on her own down there.” He knelt down by Gabriel’s bed and brushed his fingers through the boy’s hair affectionately. “Lie down and close your eyes. You’ll be asleep in no time.”

Gabriel’s chin trembled and he stared at Sherlock. “Dad… I don’t feel so good.”

Sherlock examined his child’s face. Wide, watering eyes, a tense jaw… He remembered the signs well. Detox was an illness that one would be hard pressed to forget. “Gabe, do you feel like you’re going to be…” Before he could get the words out, Gabriel was violently ill all over his bed. “…sick.” As soon as it was over, Gabriel burst into loud, wailing tears. He sat there, helpless and sobbing, not wanting to move. On the inside, Sherlock felt the same. He saw the promise of incredible sex spiraling down the drain. “It’s all right, Gabriel,” he said, pulling the soiled duvet down the bed carefully so as not to get it everywhere. “Just calm down.”

“I’m… sss…sorry…” he said in a shaky voice.

“For what? It isn’t your fault,” Sherlock said as he pulled the oversized shirt over the child’s head and tossed it aside.

“I didn’t… I didn’t mean…” His words were coming out in heavy gasps. “…to mess up… my bed…”

“Stop, Gabriel…” Sherlock said, his voice gentle but firm. “It isn’t your fault. Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.” Gabriel nodded weakly. He felt sorry for the kid. Gabriel’s face was unnaturally pale with a bloom of heat on both cheeks. He went to the wardrobe, pulling the skull pajamas out of the drawer. “You know, you didn’t have to get sick just to wear your skull pajamas.”

“Dad…”

“Hmm?”

“I think I’m going to be sick again.” Sherlock dropped the clothes on the bed and quickly led Gabriel across the hall to the bath. They might have made it in time if it hadn’t been for the distraction of the door downstairs slamming shut as John and Mary returned from their date. As it was, Gabriel barely made it to the door of the bathroom before he threw up again. Sherlock handled crime scenes and dead bodies in varying states of decomposition with the clinical eye of a scientist. He never flinched. But seeing his child erupting an evening’s worth of Italian food was almost more than he could stand. Gabriel started to cry again, but Sherlock urged him forward. “It’s okay, Gabe. Just keep going.” He managed to get the child into the bathroom and a towel over the mess before John made it to the top of the stairs.

“What’s going on?” John asked.

“Gabriel’s sick,” Sherlock replied, sitting on the edge of the tub, rubbing Gabriel’s back as he leaned over the toilet again.

“Wow… yes he is,” John commented. “Something he ate?”

“No idea. He had a headache and fever. I gave him a dose of paracetamol and he immediately started vomiting.”

“Probably something viral. I’ll get my bag and check his temperature and give him something to settle his stomach a bit. Hey, did you know Molly…”

“Shit… yes… poor thing, I just left her down there.” Sherlock held his head, thinking about the disaster that the evening had become. And it had been so lovely before…

“Look, I’ll stay here with Gabriel if you’ll take all the ruined bedding and this towel and throw it in to wash.”

“What about Mary?”

“She knows the way up here.”

Sherlock smirked and began to gather the affected items, balling them up in Gabriel’s duvet to carry downstairs and trying to ignore the sour, offensive odor emanating from the sheets. He couldn’t wait to get back to Molly and the strawberry scent of her hair. Once he’d thrown the linens into the machine and checked himself for any sign of kid-sick, he rushed back into the living room where Molly and Mary were giggling on the couch.

“Everything okay?” Molly asked.

“Gabriel’s really sick. I’m so sorry, Molly…”

“No need. It happens.” She gazed at Sherlock, her eyes saying that she was extremely sorry that they had been interrupted.

“I’d love it…” Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that Mary was staring at him, taking in every word and looking extremely amused. “…if you’d stay until I get him situated, but if you need to go…I know it’s late.”

“I really should be going. You might be up all night with Gabe and well… he needs you tonight.” Molly smiled sadly.

“Well at least let me walk you down. I don’t want you to stand on the street waiting for a cab on your own.”

Molly nodded. “All right then.” Sherlock could tell that she was feeling awkward about their rather intimate encounter and the fact that Mary was now watching their every movement. He supposed he should feel a bit awkward, but he didn’t. He wasn’t sure if it was his complete lack of regard for social graces, his annoyance at being interrupted or his enthusiasm for this… whatever it was with Molly, but he wasn’t the least bit intimidated by Mary’s watchful eye or John’s amused smiles.

He offered Molly his arm and led her down the stairs. “I’m really sorry, Molly. I kind of botched up the evening didn’t I?”

“Not at all,” she replied. “I had a really nice time.”

Sherlock smiled. Not his usual fake smile that he used when he was trying to get something from someone, but a genuine smile that lit up his whole face. “I did too. Despite your constant attempts to seduce me.”

“Me? No… I didn’t…” she stammered.

“I’m just teasing you,” he scolded, kissing her cheek. She blushed prettily and they stepped out onto the sidewalk. It was cold and Sherlock put an arm around her shoulders. “Perhaps we can try this again… if you aren’t too busy.”

She nodded. “I’d like that.” Cupping her cheek in the palm of his hand, he pulled her in to kiss her properly.

“Good. Text me the details,” he said, pulling away just as a cab stopped. He walked her over to the cab, opening the door and shielding her from the frigid breeze. “If Gabe’s better, I’ll come by the lab tomorrow.”

Molly nodded again. “Sherlock…”

“Yes?”

“What… what’s changed between us?” she asked.

He shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe I realize now how spectacularly ignorant I’ve been.”

**OoOoOo**

John stood at the window in Gabriel’s room, staring down at the couple on the street. “What in the Hell is going on with those two?” he said, more to himself than anyone else.

Mary giggled, helping Gabriel pull his pajama shirt on. “I think it’s adorable. Molly has been in love with that man for years. I’m just relieved he finally sees what a great girl she is. I had started to worry that she was going to make herself a spinster waiting for that old sod.”

“Where am I going to sleep?” Gabriel whimpered. He looked positively haggard after his ordeal. He’d thrown up twice more since his father went down to walk Doctor Molly out, the last time nothing had come up but he lay on the floor of the bath retching and crying. It was pitiful and by the time it was done, he looked like one of those people in Sherlock’s homeless network.

“I’m sure your dad will let you sleep in his bed,” John said, sitting down beside Gabe. “Especially now since his bed will seem so cold and empty.”

Mary laughed. “Don’t tease him.”

“Is that medicine making you feel any better, Gabriel?” John asked. He’d given him a dose of medicine that would settle his stomach, help his head and bring his fever down. Hopefully he’d be able to keep it down this time.

“My head still hurts a little bit,” he said, letting Mary embrace him and laying his head on her shoulder. “I’m tired now. Where’s my dad?”

“He’s putting Molly in a cab right now,” John said. “He should be back up in just a second.”

“I like Doctor Molly,” Gabriel sighed. “She’s nice.”

Sherlock appeared in the doorway and Gabriel pulled away from Mary to go to him. He picked the little boy up and cradled him against his chest. Gabe immediately put his thumb in his mouth, but Sherlock didn’t stop him. If it would soothe him, what difference did it make? “All right, Gabe?”

“No,” he whimpered. “I feel like shit, dad.” All of the adults burst into laughter as he said this, completely unaware that he’d said anything off color.

“Gabriel,” Sherlock whispered. “I wholeheartedly agree with the sentiment, but not the word choice.”

“You say it all the time,” he grumbled.

“And it’s not appropriate then either. But I don’t have a dad to tell me not to.”

Gabriel shrugged. “Maybe John can tell you not to.”

“There’s the pot calling the kettle black,” Mary mumbled, receiving a playful swat on the ass for her trouble. “Well it’s true. Both of you have mouths like sailors.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I think we’d better go to bed before this becomes too violent and graphic for us.”

**OoOoOo**

It had been four days since their date and Molly hadn’t heard a word from Sherlock. He’d promised to come into the lab the next day, but he never showed. She supposed he’d just decided that the whole thing had been a mistake. But he should at least have the common courtesy to call and tell her. Or at least text. Of course, when talking about Sherlock Holmes, common courtesy wasn’t really part of his vocabulary. No, he’d intended to use her for a one night stand, sate his primal need for sex and then just throw her aside. It had happened to her before and she knew the signs. As the days passed, her mood had darkened further until she was either snarling at everyone or just staring off into space. Damn him!

No. She was not going to let this go on. She was going to give him a piece of her mind! Tell him that she might not be most beautiful or cleverest girl in the world, but she deserved better! She is a well-respected doctor, damnit! Not some little schoolgirl that could be used as a plaything! As she stormed out of the office and down the hall, Molly pulled her mobile out of her pocket so vigorously that she nearly threw it. Her hands shook as she ticked through her contacts looking for him. “This is it! Once and for all!”

The phone rang several times and for a moment she was afraid he wouldn’t pick it up. She didn’t want to have to tell him off in a voicemail. It wouldn’t be nearly so satisfying. Maybe she should just go to the flat and confront him head on. Finally, he picked up.

“Hello?”   Gabriel. Why was Gabriel answering Sherlock’s mobile?

“Uhm… yeah… Gabriel?”

“Yep.”

She almost laughed, but no… the cuteness of his kid wasn’t going to quell her anger. “This is Doctor Molly. Can I speak to your dad, please?”

“Uhm…” He was hesitating. Did the five-year old know something she didn’t? Oh God, did Irene Adler come back from the dead to ruin her life one more time? “Well, Doctor Molly…”

“I don’t care if he’s busy, Gabriel. You just let me talk to him. It will only take a second.”

“Ok… hold on for a second.” She heard Gabriel put the phone down. In the background she could hear muffled male voices and then a distinctly feminine voice. Molly’s face flushed red with white-hot anger. He hadn’t called her because he was having some kind of hedonistic fuck fest with an undead sex worker!

“Sherlock Holmes…” It was indeed his voice. That gravelly baritone growl that was distinctly him. Molly felt her center throb just a little and she mentally kicked herself. But there was something else. He sounded almost… weak.

“Look, Sherlock… if you didn’t want to see me again, you could have at least sent a text! I mean, avoiding me like the plague is just childish and rude! I thought we had something! I thought you had finally started seeing me for who I am! I thought---“

“Molly? Oh… God… I’m so sorry, Molly. I’m sick.”

“Oh yeah, right. Peddle that line somewhere else, MISTER Holmes…”

“No really… Molly… I promise. Whatever Gabe had was evidently contagious and…” Suddenly there was a clatter of noise as Sherlock dropped the phone.

There was retching.


	14. The Night Visitor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a good time is had by all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit long, but worth it. Its pretty MATURE at the end, so tread carefully....

“You have to push the needle and thread through the puffy part,” Mary instructed. She was trying to show Gabriel how to string popcorn without much success. “Be gentle. That’s why you keep crumbling it up. Don’t hold the kernel so tightly.” Gabriel squinted, examining the needle closely as he pushed it through.

“I did it!” he exclaimed, holding up his needle to show Mary.

“Great! Now you just push it down to the knot at the end of the string.”

Gabriel scanned the length of string and sighed. Carefully he began sliding the popcorn kernel down the long string. He was almost there when the puffed bit disintegrated and fell on the floor. Gabriel gave a frustrated growl. “Mary! I can’t do this!”

Mary looked up from her string to see Gabriel huffing in Sherlock’s armchair. She almost laughed at the similarity of his dark expression. Just like his father, if he didn’t immediately master something, he couldn’t be bothered. His resolute expression said that the art of stringing popcorn was now dead to him. “Aww… sure you can, Gabe. It just takes practice. Look here, why don’t I do the popcorn strings and you can try something else?” She patted the seat beside her. He shrugged and went to her.

Very slowly, Christmas was starting to appear at Baker Street, much to the chagrin of Sherlock who didn’t understand why the entire flat had to be adorned with glitter and evergreen boughs. Everyone had managed to get over their sickness, but a week in bed had set the case load back considerably. Mary had become a near permanent fixture in the flat as Sherlock and John worked non-stop. For the last week, they would rise before Gabriel was out of bed and not return until after dark. And when he was home, Sherlock was peevish and short with everyone, including Gabriel. Earlier that morning he’d snapped at the child for daring to turn the television on and Mary for scraping her spoon on the bowl as she ate.

Gabriel had also started emulating his father’s prickly disposition as the Christmas noose began to tighten. What many people don’t realize is that while Christmas is a magical time for most children, it was also the most stressful time of their whole year. The constant worry about what they want for Christmas, the almost paranoid consciousness of Santa’s watchful eye, the brimming excitement that grew exponentially the closer it got to December 25th—it all conspired to make a heavy stew of stress that would bubble in little bellies. This was Gabriel’s first Christmas that he was even aware of such things, but this year he was **extremely** aware. The kids in the park had debated their Christmas lists and their plans for catching Father Christmas. His friend Kate had told him all about their Christmas play at school and had even invited him to come and see it. All the shops were alight with ornaments and lights and chubby old guys in red suits. You couldn’t watch telly without being bombarded with loud commercials advertising sales or Christmas shows. And then there was the snow. Two nights previous, the snow had begun to fall and had been falling off and on over the course of the last forty-eight hours. Simply put, Gabriel was in Christmas overdrive and the over-stimulation had given him a temporary case of schizophrenia. One minute he was laughing, the next he was in the throes of a full on tantrum.

“Let’s just make a paper chain. That will look pretty on the tree,” Mary suggested, pulling out Gabriel’s pad of colored paper. “Cut strips of red and green and link them together.” She cut a few pieces and showed him what to do. “And when you’re done you have this pretty chain that you can drape over the branches of the tree.”

Gabriel snorted. “We don’t have a Christmas tree.”

“But we will have.”

“No we won’t,” he brooded. “We can’t get one without Dad and John and they aren’t ever here.”

“They’ll slow down soon, Gabe. I know you miss them.” Mary reached out and ruffled his hair affectionately. “But for now, we can have fun on our own.”

“I guess,” he sighed and began cutting strips of paper for the garland. Mary turned on the stereo and searched through Sherlock’s iPod that had been left in the dock. She set it to ‘random,’ bracing herself for whatever might come through the speakers. Luckily it was a soothing violin and piano concerto that sounded both strange and familiar. It served its purpose and the two of them worked silently at their projects. Mary was good at calming the little attacks of anxiety that sometimes plagued the little boy. What John had dubbed “a little touch of Aspberger’s.” Mostly because very little upset her. “Do you think my dad and John will be home to eat dinner?”

“I’m not sure. I got a text from John saying that it would be late, but he didn’t say how late.”

“What if they don’t get home by the time I have to go to bed? What about when you go home? I don’t like sleeping at Mrs. Hudson’s flat.”

Mary chuckled. “Why don’t you like Mrs. Hudson’s flat?”

“Well, I like being at Mrs. Hudson’s flat, but her guest room is creepy. She has all these pictures on the wall and it’s like they’re staring at me.” He shuddered and squeezed glue on to the end of a paper strip.

She smiled. “Well I’ll stay with you until they get back.”

“Even if I have to go to bed?”

“Even then.”

An hour later, Gabriel had made a paper chain to rival Jacob Marley’s and Mary had enough popcorn strung to go around two or three Christmas trees. They decided that the paper garland would look festive around the archway that led down the hall toward the back stairs and Sherlock’s bedroom. Mary had just pulled a kitchen chair over to tack the chain to the wall when they heard a knock at the door. “I’ll get it!” Gabriel called.

“Oh no you won’t,” Mary answered, pulling him back by his shirt collar. “You have no idea who that might be. Never open the door to a stranger. Especially this door.” She pushed him behind her as she went down the stairs and peered through the peephole.

Mrs. Hudson appeared. “Who can that be at this hour? The boys wouldn’t knock.”

“Oh! It’s Molly,” Mary exclaimed, opening the door. “Heyya!” she greeted, hugging Molly. “What are you doing here?”

“I brought some lab reports for Sherlock. He had to leave before they were done this afternoon, so I promised I’d drop them off.”

“Hi, Doctor Molly!” Gabriel raced down the stairs and leapt into Molly’s arms.

“Oof! Looks like you’ve recovered from your sickness,” she said, kissing his forehead.

“Yep! I feel much better now.” He looked up at Mary. “Can Molly and Mrs. Hudson come up and eat with us?”

“You mean you’re finally ready to eat?” she laughed.

“Yes!” he exclaimed and turned back to Molly. “Don’t you want to stay with us? We have spaghetti stuff.”

“Uhm… well… if it’s okay with Mary.”

“Of course! We were just complaining that we were lonely. Mrs. Hudson, what about you?”

“Oh I can’t tonight,” Mrs. Hudson said. “Mr. Quinn down the street has asked me to dinner.”

Gabriel giggled. “Do you have a date, Mrs. Hudson?”

“Well aren’t you Mr. Noseypants?” Mrs. Hudson teased, pinching his cheek. “But I’ll come up for tea tomorrow if you like.”

“Yes, please!” he answered excitedly, waving as Molly carried him up the stairs.

“Sheesh, Gabriel,” Molly said, setting him on the floor as they reached the flat. “You must stop growing.”

“I can’t!” he said.

“It’s all in his feet,” Mary teased. “In another couple of months he’ll be able to waterski.”

**OoOoOo**

Mary poured Molly another glass of wine. After dinner, Gabriel had retired to the couch to watch yet another rerun of Doctor Who as the girls lingered over the dregs of the wine bottle. “Dinner was delicious, Mary. Thanks for inviting me to stay.”

“Well you know you don’t have to wait for an invitation,” Mary replied. She stared at Molly, a question burning on her lips. “So… I was curious. What’s going on between you and Sherlock?”

Molly immediately blushed a deep crimson and took a long pull of her wine. “What do you mean?”

“Oh I think you know very well what I mean,” Mary giggled. “The other night when Gabriel was sick—when John and I came in it was late… very late. You were sitting on the couch with a wine glass in your hand and messed up hair. Not to mention that John saw the two of you lingering on the street.”

Molly smiled, a guilty but wide smile that told Mary all she needed to know. “Well… we sort of… went out…”

“And?”

“And we had a little too much wine and it was a little too late…and well, he kissed me.” Molly closed her eyes and chewed her lower lip, obviously consumed by the memory of the aforementioned kiss. “God, did he kiss me…even better than the time in the morgue…”

“The time in the morgue?!” Mary’s mouth hung agape. “What time in the morgue?”

“Well… a few days before the date… we were alone in the morgue and well… it just sort of happened.” She peered over her shoulder to see if Gabriel was paying attention. Thankfully, he was so engrossed in the telly that he hadn’t heard a word of their conversation. “But we haven’t really spoken since the night Gabriel got so ill. I mean, he’s come to the lab a few times, but only just in passing and John was always with him. So…”

Mary jumped out of her chair and threw her arms around her friend. “Oh I’m so happy for you, Molly!”

Molly’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “Why? There’s nothing official. I’m not even sure where we stand.”

“Well it seems to me that Mr. Holmes has finally come to his senses!”

“Or he’s just experimenting on me,” Molly replied darkly. “I wouldn’t put it past him.” Deep down, this was Molly’s greatest fear and the source of all of her apprehension. Sherlock was always manipulating her to get what he wanted. In the past she never knew if he was being nice to her because he liked her or because he wanted her to do him a favor. What if this whole thing was merely an attempt to solve some puzzle he had cooking in his head?

Mary arched her eyebrow knowingly. “You two have been dinner conversation for me and John for a couple of weeks now. He knows Sherlock better than anyone and according to him… Sherlock’s been acting very strangely. Hell, even I’ve seen how he looks at you.”

“How does he look at me?”

“Like he’s been wandering the desert with no food and you’re a big plate of bacon.” Before Molly could respond, Mary’s mobile went off with an obnoxiously loud tone. It nearly vibrated off the table before she took it. “Hello?” She wandered off into the hall for a little privacy.

Molly rose from the table and began clearing up the dishes. She smirked, looking down at Gabriel’s plate, most of the pasta left uneaten. “Gabe, are you finished eating?” she called.

“Yes.”

“Are you sure? It looks like you hardly ate anything.”

“I’m sure,” he said.

“Just like Sherlock,” she mumbled, scraping the remnants of Gabriel’s dinner into the bin. Then she began filling the sink with hot water to wash up the dinner dishes. She wasn’t sure why, but she felt the need to do something with her hands. All that talk of Sherlock and memories of their kiss—she just felt so nervous that she needed to get some of the energy out.

“Damnit,” Mary growled, re-entering the kitchen and slamming her phone down.

“What’s going on?” Molly asked.

“My brother borrowed my car and promptly hit an old lady whose car was stopped in a carpark across town.” She sighed. “Both cars are banged up royally and the police need me to bring the insurance information.”

“Oh no!”

“And of course, John’s not answering his phone…” she paused. “Molly, do you think that maybe you could stay with Gabriel? I hate to ask, but I don’t know when they’ll be back and Mrs. Hudson is out and…”

“Of course! Go on and do what you have to do. Gabriel and me will be just fine.”

Upon hearing his name, Gabriel sat up. “What’s going on?” he asked, walking into the kitchen.

“I have to go see about my brother,” Mary explained. “But Molly’s going to stay here with you until your dad and John get back.”

“Is that okay, Gabe?” Molly asked, kneeling down to his level.

“I guess so,” Gabriel said, allowing Mary to embrace him. “But when will Dad be home?”

“Soon, I’m sure,” Mary replied, kissing his cheek.

**OoOoOo**

It was nearing midnight and both Molly and Gabriel were dozing on the couch. There had been no sign of Team Baker Street save for a single text responding to Molly’s.

_OK. ~SH_

They had drawn pictures, hung Christmas lights around the mantle, watched more Doctor Who and even played a game of Cluedo, but now it was becoming painfully obvious that Gabriel would have to go to bed. Molly had been dreading this part of the evening because the later it got, the more agitated the child was becoming.   He hadn’t slept in the house without Sherlock since his arrival at Baker Street. He’d napped at Mrs. Hudson’s but that was during the day. Now it was dark and as everyone knows, situations are always more foreboding in the dark. But there was nothing to be done for it. The poor thing was dead on his feet.

“All right, Gabriel. We’d better get you into bed.”

Gabriel’s mouth dropped open. “Noooo… Molly, I’m not ready to go to bed!”

“Oh really?” she giggled. “I had to wake you up to tell you to go to bed. Your eyes are all red and you’ve been yawning steady since 9. Come on, it will be all right. And when you wake up, your dad will be here.”

“No! I don’t want to go to bed without my dad!” His chin was already trembling and Molly was dreading those big fat tears that were already gathering in the corners of his eyes. She knew she wouldn’t be able to resist them. She thought fast. It was obvious she was going to have to bribe him in some way.

“I tell you what, run up to your room and put on your pajamas. Get your favorite book and we’ll climb up in your father’s bed. When I was a little girl, if I missed my dad, I would just hug his pillow or wear one of his old shirts and that would make me feel better. What do you say? Care to try it?”

Gabriel seemed to think this over. “Okay,” he said finally. But he still looked skeptical. Molly marched him up the stairs and into his room. Fortunately, he was able to retrieve his skully pajamas, so that drama was avoided. She giggled as she helped him into the shirt, having to pull it down over his head and only getting it stuck on his nose once. “My head’s too big,” he whined.

“It’s so you can get all those brains in there,” Molly chuckled. “Besides, you’re absolutely perfect, Gabriel Holmes.” She kissed his nose and cheeks until he was giggling with her. Then he chose his fairy tale book from the shelf by his bed and bounded down the stairs and corridor and into Sherlock’s bedroom. He gave a battlecry and launched himself into the middle of the enormous bed.

Molly blushed, looking around the room. She had fantasized about what Sherlock’s bedroom would look like. This seemed to be a bit different than what she expected. It was immaculately clean for one thing, with everything in its place. The tiny, stainless steel refrigerator that held all of his experiments was in one corner adorned with a lamp and a very artistic looking teapot. No one would ever suspect that there were probably body parts floating in formaldehyde inside. His closet was ordered, standing slightly ajar so that she could see his many suits, shirts and pants, arranged by color. There was also a chest of drawers with a small television mounted to the wall over top. There was no artwork to speak of, save for a poster of the periodic table on the wall by the door. And then, there was his bed. With Gabriel sitting in the center, it looked gigantic. It had been made up with a deep purple duvet and several pillows were tossed across it. Molly got lost for a moment in a fantasy of lying back into that bed with him. The duvet rising up around them and the comforting warmth and weight of his body lying atop hers.

“Read,” Gabriel commanded, handing her the book before diving under the covers.

“Oh… yes. Sorry,” Molly stammered. She took the book and kicked her shoes off, cautiously sitting down beside him on the bed. It was soft and comfortable and she sank into it. Gabriel pulled the covers around himself and Molly, then snuggled against her side.

He pointed out the dragon story. “This one’s my favorite. Can we read that one?”

“Uhm… sure…do you think your dad will mind me being in his bed with you, Gabe?”

He shrugged. “Probably not.”

“That’s so comforting,” she thought, turning her thoughts to the story of the dragon maiden.

**OoOoOo**

It was after one in the morning when they finally darkened the door of 221 B. Sherlock was exhausted, dragging himself through the door with John lagging behind. The doctor was literally asleep on his feet. He even had to be awakened to get out of the cab when they arrived. He grumbled an unintelligible “Good night,” as he trudged up the stairs. Sherlock could only grunt in reply.

He looked around, noticing that the television was still on, but Molly and Gabriel were nowhere in sight. A note revealed that a container of pasta had been left for them in the fridge if they were hungry. Sherlock was not. Right now, all he wanted was his bed. The day had been both exciting and grueling. They rushed from one crime scene to another, gathering evidence and putting the pieces together before a serial bomber could strike again. The suspect had begun with small fires that had gradually escalated to more sophisticated devices. Finally, they were able to narrow the field to two suspects, both of which were in custody. Lestrade should be able to wheedle out which one actually lit the fuse, so Sherlock had finally decided to go home.

He wandered down the hall to his room and found the door standing open. He never left his bedroom open. Stepping through, his eyes tried to adjust to the darkness. He could just make out the outline of people in his bed. Suddenly he knew how the three bears must have felt. And then, he smelled it. A slight citrus mixed with the sweet scent of jasmine and myrrh. It was Molly’s perfume. Reaching over, he found the tiny night light that he kept for Gabriel’s sake and switched it on. Sure enough, there was Gabriel and Molly in his bed. She lay on her back with Gabriel’s head snuggled against her breast. One arm was around him and the other thrown to the side. Gabriel’s fairy tale book lay on the floor, having obviously slipped from her grasp when she fell asleep. Her breathing was light and she murmured softly in her sleep. It was mostly incoherent but one word he made out perfectly: Sherlock.

**OoOoOo**

Gabriel’s eyes fluttered open and for a moment they didn’t focus. Then he saw Sherlock standing in the doorway and gasped. “Dad—“ he started.

“Shh…” Sherlock hissed, a fingertip pressed to his lips. “Don’t wake Doctor Molly.” He walked over to the far side of the bed slowly, trying to avoid the creaky spaces on the hardwood floor. He beckoned for Gabriel to come to him and the child obeyed, crawling to the edge and into Sherlock’s arms.

As they exited the room quietly, Gabriel threw his arms around his father’s neck and hugged him tightly. “I missed you, Dad. I haven’t seen you all day.”

“I know. I missed you too. Believe me, I’d have much rather been here with you.” His voice sounded almost alien to him. Was he actually saying that? Did he actually mean it? After a moment he decided that yes, he would have rather been playing with Gabriel than at a crime scene. Which was a testament to the depth of sentiment he’d developed for his son over the last few months. “But guess what? Tomorrow, I should be here all day.”

“All day?” Gabriel’s sleepy eyes sparkled and he hugged Sherlock tighter. “Hooray!”

Sherlock laughed. “Shh… you’re going to wake everyone up.”

“Oops…” They trudged up the stairs, Gabriel chattering sleepily about making Christmas decorations and Mary’s spaghetti and how Molly had read him the dragon story. “Is Doctor Molly going to stay over?”

“If she doesn’t wake up, then I suppose so,” he answered.

“But where will you sleep, dad?”

He sighed. “Probably on the couch, Gabe.”

“Well you have a big bed. You could sleep with Doctor Molly,” he said. Sherlock’s throat closed up and he began coughing uncontrollably as he set Gabriel down in front of his bed. “Are you ok, dad?”

“Yeah… just still croaky from being sick,” he lied. “Into bed with you. It’s late.” Gabriel climbed in and immediately snuggled into the blankets, yawning wide. “Love you, kid,” he said, tousling Gabe’s hair.

“Me too,” Gabe replied, his eyes already closed.

**OoOoOo**

Should he wake her? Should he let her sleep? And if he did let her sleep, should he crawl into bed beside her or just take the couch? Questions tumbled and slithered over themselves in his head. Little voices echoed in his ears. John, Mycroft, Sally Donovan, Moriarty, his mother, even his own, all telling him that he wasn’t capable of this. Love and sentiment weren’t, as Lestrade would say, his division.

_“You machine!”_

_“He’ll always let you down.”_

_“All hearts are broken.”_

_“…final proof.”_

Sherlock beat the heel of his hand against his forehead. “Stop it, Holmes,” he hissed to himself. “This is ridiculous.” He steeled himself, pulling on his armored suit of snark and arrogance as he stepped into his bedroom and turned the desk lamp on. The dim glow illuminated the room slightly and a blade of light fell across her cheek. Sherlock could literally feel the walls crumble as he looked into her face. How could he have been so blind to this before? Because he’d thought he had all the time in the world. He would live forever. But then the realization of his own mortality reminded him that life was fleeting. He wasn’t a machine and he couldn’t hide from the pain of loss by numbing himself to all feeling.

“Molly,” he whispered, kneeling at the bedside. He didn’t want to frighten her awake and tried to be as delicate as possible as he touched her brow. Her hair was splayed across the pillow and he stroked his fingers through it. “I’m here, Molly,” he said, pressing his lips to her temple. She made a small noise as she stirred. He watched her eyes dart behind their lids as she fought to stay asleep. The corner of his mouth turned up slightly. “Wake up…” he purred, kissing her lips lightly.

“Mmmm… Sherlock…” she sighed, her eyes fluttering open. “Is that you?”

“It is. I’m home.”

Suddenly she realized where she was and who he was and she sat up fast, almost recoiling from him. “Oh… wow… I must have fallen asleep reading to…” She paused, looking around the room. “Where’s Gabriel?”

“He’s in his bed.” Sherlock rolled backward on his feet and stood up in a single, lithe movement. He shrugged off his jacket as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes.

“Oh. Well… I guess I should be going then.” She tried to stand up and stumbled, sitting back down on the bed with a surprised squeak. “Damn… my foot’s asleep.”

He turned, still unfastening the buttons on his shirt. “Why don’t you just stay? It’s nearly two at this point. You’ll play Hell getting a cab at this time of night and I refuse to let you ride the Tube alone.”

“Well… tomorrow is my day off… I suppose it wouldn’t hurt. I mean, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course not,” he replied. He reached for a clean set of pajamas from his top drawer and tossed Molly the loose gray teeshirt. “Here. Put this on. I’m sure you don’t want to sleep in your work clothes.”

“Thanks,” she stammered, looking around for a place to change. There was a small bathroom and she quickly rushed inside, almost slamming the door behind her.

**OoOoOo**

Molly leaned against the door heavily then slid down until she was sitting on the floor, clutching his shirt to her chest. “Get it together, Hooper,” she sighed. He probably didn’t mean for her to sleep in his bed with him. One of them would end up on the couch, but he had given her his clothes to sleep in. That had to say something didn’t it? “So you’ve got a choice here, Hooper. You can do what you always do, which is stumble around, not saying what you really mean and looking like an idiot, OR, you can put your big girl pants on and go for it.” She wished for a moment that she had one of those inner goddesses like in that stupid bondage romance she’d read.

Quickly, she pulled her clothes off, folding them neatly and stacking them on the counter. She looked down, wondering if she should take her bra off or leave it on. It was one of those push-up jobbies and extremely uncomfortable to sleep in. But on the other hand, at that horrible Christmas party he had commented that her breasts were too small. If she unleashed them, they’d disappear. No, she’d told herself she wasn’t going to do that anymore. She was happy with her body and that’s all that mattered. Of course, if she took much longer in the bathroom, it would be a moot point. He’d be asleep. She unhooked her bra and draped it over her other clothes before pulling his shirt over her head. Her tiny frame was consumed by the fabric and she laughed as it fell off of her shoulder. Good Lord, it smelled divine. Evidently he wore the shirt a lot because though she could tell it was freshly laundered, she could smell him all over it. The same scent that disarmed her whenever he leaned over her shoulder to see what she was looking at during a post-mortem. The same scent that was so intoxicating that night they’d been snogging on the couch.

Molly looked at herself in the mirror. Her hair was a train wreck. She combed her fingers through it, trying to make it look less like a rat’s nest. Then she looked down at her legs and ran her fingers across them. Luckily she had shaved the night before so the stubble wasn’t too bad. Placing her palm over her mouth, she breathed into it, smelling her breath. “Oh Lord…” she sighed. She’d been asleep for over an hour. Her breath would naturally stop a train. She carefully opened the medicine cabinet over the sink and saw a tube of toothpaste. “There is a God…” she whispered, pulling the cap off. Seeing as how she had no toothbrush, she scrubbed her teeth and tongue as best she could with her finger. One more deep breath, a final pat down of her hair and she thought she was ready. “Be brave. Don’t be stupid,” she whispered just before pulling the door open.

When Molly stepped out of the bath, the room was darker than before, the tiny nightlight the only thing offering any light whatsoever. Sherlock lay on the bed, on top of the covers, his fingers steepled under his lower lip. His pale skin looked almost blue in the moonlight that streamed in through the window. Shadows cast across his naked torso highlighted the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed slowly. The loose fabric of his pajama trousers fell low on his hips, exposing the sharp lines of his pelvic bone and the light dusting of hair just below his navel. His eyes were closed, but she could tell that he wasn’t sleeping. She caught a glimmer as one eye opened, staring at her. “Were you planning on standing there staring at me all night?” he asked with a knowing smirk. It was something completely in character for him to say, yet this time he seemed playful rather than sarcastic.

“Oh… I was just wondering… are there extra blankets and pillows for the couch?”

“What for?”

“Well, you know… to sleep under.” She crossed her arms, almost hugging herself to keep her hands from shaking and her heart from leaping out of her chest. “It is a little chilly.”

“Then get into bed, you silly girl.”

“Here? I mean, with you?” Molly squinted, instantly regretting her awkward response but feeling it falling uncontrollably from her lips.

“Why not? It’s a big bed. You’re a small girl. We’re both adults. Problem?” How did he not sound nervous? Not in the least. It was as if he’d been planning every word carefully all night. Why did he have to be so damn sure of himself all the time?

She shook her head and went toward the bed, suddenly extremely aware of how undressed she was. The tail of his teeshirt touched her thighs just above her knee, but as she walked, it rode up, exposing more of her legs than she’d like. She pulled the covers back. They were already messed up from where her and Gabriel had been sleeping before. She climbed in and pulled the blankets over herself quickly, turning so her back was to Sherlock. “Good night,” she murmured. He didn’t reply, but she felt the bed bounce as he slid under the blanket on the other side. His body was warm and her first instinct was to gravitate toward him. She gripped her pillow tight, her eyes so wide that she thought their lids might tear, letting her eyeballs fall out and roll across the room and down the hall.

“Molly,” he said after several minutes. God, just the sound of his voice saying her name sent a shockwave straight to her center. She bit her lip until she could taste the blood. It was the bitter taste of clarity.

“Yes?” she asked, rolling over to find him hovering above her, propped on one elbow. He said nothing more, just leaned in and kissed her soundly. Molly felt her heart drop in her chest and her entire body relax beneath him, luxuriating in the sensation of his kiss. She had missed this so much. Her body missed the way his fit to hers so perfectly and the way his mouth moved so slow and sure. It had been more than a week and that was much too long to be without the addictive opiate that was Sherlock. After several moments, he pulled back and in her delirium she followed, not wanting to give up the taste of him. She opened her eyes and gazed up at him. “Are you real?” she asked.

He smiled. “What are you talking about?”

“So many of my fantasies begin this way. I just want to make sure you aren’t a bit of fever or just another one of my daydreams.”

He shook his head and kissed her again, sliding an arm across her middle and around to cup her hip in his palm. He was gentle but insistent as he pulled her body closer, sealing them together so close that he could feel her heart pounding against his chest. The tips of his fingers played with the edge of the shirt until they found their way under to trace over the bare skin at the back of her thigh. She didn’t protest and his hand slid higher, coming to rest on the curve of her ass. There was that spark of electricity again. The one that struck her center, making her warm and wet so that she unknowingly parted her thighs to cool the burning. This time it wasn’t sharp, but a dull throb that settled into her womb. She pushed herself against him, knowing that only the contact of his body against hers would assuage that delicious agony.

“I didn’t ask you to stay so I could seduce you,” Sherlock said, his voice the low thrumming of a sleeping tiger.

“I don’t mind,” she replied, arching her neck and begging for his kiss. “It’s all I ever wanted,” she sighed, hoping it didn’t sound as cheesy as she thought. “I’ve thought of it so many times… you have no idea.” He nodded, kissing the crest of her cheek and brushing his lips lightly along the delicate bone until he reached her ear. He slid his hand higher, pushing his shirt over her torso, exposing more of her skin. When she made no move to stop him, he simply pulled it over her head and tossed it carelessly behind him.

Molly could feel her face, nay her entire body, blush with white hot embarrassment as she realized that she was practically nude. Suddenly she could hear his voice, that condescending tone that used to drip like venom from his lips, echoing in her head. “Obviously trying to compensate for the size of her mouth and breasts.” She didn’t realize she’d said it out loud until he stopped, a positively stricken expression darkening his features.

“What? What did you say?” He narrowed his eyes, realizing that his own words had, for once, been turned against him.

“That’s what… that’s what you said to me that night. The Christmas party. Do you remember it?” She tried to smile, but she couldn’t mask how much those words still hurt.

“I… I had no idea…”

“Well I remember it. I hear it every time…” She smiled. “Not that I ever think of it.” The corners of her eyes were burning and she clenched her fist, digging her nails into the heel of her hand. “It doesn’t matter. It was ages ago. A lifetime, right?”

“It does matter, Molly.   And I am sorry. I was so stupid. I didn’t think it would matter to you. I never dreamed it would hurt you so. I never mean those things that come out of my mouth sometimes. And I know now, just like I knew then… you’re too good for me. But I promise if you let me try, I will be better. I want to be the kind of lover you deserve, Molly Hooper.” He lay his head on her chest, his soft curls tickling the oversensitive skin at the center of each breast. “I should have told you every day. You are perfect every day.”

Sherlock raised his head, his pale eyes pleading. She reached down, taking his hand and pressing it to her breast. “Put your hands on me.”

Immediately his hand covered one breast, squeezing gently.  “One would _have_ to be a soulless machine not to be enflamed with lust at seeing you.”  His thumb found the center and traced around it, just barely touching the skin and watching as it beaded.  “The physical response to sexual arousal is quite fascinating, really.” He leaned over and licked the swollen nipple, taking it between his lips and gently nibbling.  “If only in its simplicity.”  When he spoke, the generous bow of his lips trilled over the sensitive flesh.  Molly exhaled slowly, the tremble in her breathing audible.  “It’s one of the few biological responses that rely completely on the perception of the mind.”  Sherlock kissed along the valley between her breasts, gentle, feathery kisses that burned.  “For example, if you were not attracted to me…” Her breathing was shallow, watching as he dragged his fingertips slowly down her abdomen and played at the hollow of her navel.  “If you felt nothing, then your skin would not prickle.”   He kissed her neck, his teeth nipping playfully before whispering in her ear.  “Your breathing would not labor.”

  “God…” Molly murmured, her eyes fluttering closed.  His fingers tapped out a rhythm on that sensitive delta of overheated flesh that lay just between her navel and the hood of her sex.  With a single fingertip, he pulled at the scalloped, lacy edge of her virginal, pink underwear.  She wished that she’d been wearing something more seductive, more grown up, but Sherlock didn’t seem to mind.  He peeled away the sticky silk fabric until she was laid bare beneath him.

“Your cheeks are flushed… I can feel the heat radiating from your body…” The tips of his fingers traveled lower to the center of that heat he spoke of.  “If your heart wasn’t in it, everything would be a mechanical movement.  Your consciousness betrays you and that basal, reptilian part of your brain is in control.  Of course, at some point physiology will take over, but this…”  Deliberately his thumb brushed over the delicate pearl of nerve endings tucked just inside her sex.  Molly cried out, her hips jerking toward him.  For a moment she had no control and no care for who could hear her.  Obviously Sherlock did, because he covered her mouth with his, muffling the sound.  “…proof of the mind’s power over the body.”


	15. Clean Up On Aisle Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Gabriel learns the art of a spectacular tantrum.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It should be noted that I wrote this chapter BEFORE series 3 began.

John smelled coffee.  It was the intoxicating, caffeinated dark chocolatey scent of fresh perfection.  John never woke up to the smell of coffee because he was the only person who ever made it.  No one else had trouble _drinking_ it, but he always made it.  Had he, in his exhaustion last night, wandered into the wrong flat?  He stumbled out of bed and tromped down the stairs.  Gabriel was awake, still in his pajamas, sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table staring with an almost comical intensity down at a piece of paper.  He held a fat pencil tightly in his hand John could tell that he was concentrating on holding it correctly.  “Hey, Gabe,” he said with a yawn.

“Hi John,” he replied, not looking up from his paper.  He chewed on his lower lip, his eyes following every stroke of his pencil. 

“What are you doing?”

“Practicing writing.  I just can’t make the pencil do what my brain is telling it to.”

John smiled and ruffled the little boy’s hair.  “You’ll get it, mate.”  He continued into the kitchen where there was indeed a pot of coffee brewing.  Sherlock was darting around the kitchen, gathering mugs, sugar and milk.  John looked over his shoulder again to make sure he was still in the right flat.  Did he take a wrong turn at the stairs?  “Good morning?” he said, the lilt in his voice making it more of a question than a greeting. 

“Good morning,” Sherlock replied.  “Coffee?”

“You made coffee?”

“Yes.  What’s so bad about that?”

“You only make coffee when you’re going to poison me.” 

Sherlock chuckled and handed him a cup.  “Fine.  Get it yourself.”  He turned, putting a plate of toast and a bowl of fruit on the table in front of him.  “Gabriel, come and eat something.”  The little boy mumbled something incoherent in response but didn’t move.  “Now.”

“But I’m not hungry,” Gabriel sighed, dragging his feet to the table and flopping down in a chair. 

“You aren’t now, but you will be later,” Sherlock replied, putting a spoonful of fruit on Gabriel’s plate. 

John was spreading jam on his toast when he noticed that he could hear water coming from someplace.  “Is the shower running?”

“Yep,” Sherlock said.  It was all he offered.  “Gabriel,” he sighed.  The child was shoving grapes into his mouth until his cheeks were puffed out like a squirrel storing up for winter.  “Stop.” Gabriel smiled mischievously and swallowed.  Then it was silent.  Freakishly silent, save for the obvious sound of the shower in Sherlock’s bathroom.  John considered pressing for more information, but decided that all would be revealed in time. 

And so it was. 

Ten minutes later, Molly Hooper strolled down the hallway and into the kitchen.  Her hair was wrapped in a towel and she was wearing Sherlock’s dressing gown.  Her feet were bare and slapped against the hardwood, making her self-conscious as she took the walk of shame past the refrigerator.  John’s mouth hung loosely on its hinges, watching her as she fixed a cup of coffee and sat down in the chair on the other side of Sherlock.  “Good morning, John,” she chirped. 

“Is it?”  He was very confused.  So confused that he didn’t even know what to say.  He watched as Molly and Sherlock passed food between one another, not speaking but looking very suspicious. 

“Oh Gabe… let me help you with that,” Molly said, reaching out to take his toast from him and spread jam across it thinly. 

“Dad, do we have Nutella?”

“God I hope not,” Sherlock replied. “Disgusting death-paste…”

Molly and Gabe gasped in unison.  “Nutella is delicious!”

“It’s chocolatey and creamy…”

“And it’s excellent on a bagel.” 

Sherlock stared at them.  “Do you two own shares in the company or something? The point is that no, we do not have any of that disgusting death-paste.”

Molly smirked at him, shaking her head with feigned sadness.  “Don’t worry, Gabe.  I’ll bring us a big jar from the market. We can eat it with spoons in front of him.”  They giggled conspiratorially as she handed the little boy his triangles of toast and jam. 

John stared, a piece of toast poised in his hand as he watched the three of them act like nothing special was going on.  Sherlock had his nose in the newspaper like usual.  Molly cooed and chattered with Gabriel, occasionally stealing a raspberry off of his plate or reaching over Sherlock for another slice of toast.  It wasn’t computing.  It was all too much.  John Watson had finally gone over the edge, his PTSD finally catching up to him.  “Uhm… what the fuck is going on here?”

Gabriel shot a disapproving look in John’s direction.  “You aren’t supposed to say that word…”

“Honestly, John…” Sherlock scolded with an exaggerated scowl.  “There’s a child in the room.”  As if his mouth were sanitized with Holy Water.

“That is _so_ not the point!”  John exclaimed.  “I feel like I’m going insane.  You’re making coffee and eating… and then Molly…”  He stopped and stood up, carrying his plate and coffee into the living room.

“What’s wrong with him?” Gabriel asked.

“No idea.”

**OoOoOo**

It was the first sunny day they’d had in two weeks.  London was positively glowing with bright blue skies and crisp wintery air.  The snow was steadily melting with the warmth of the sun that had finally burst through the thick blanket of clouds that had been lying mistily over the city for the last couple of weeks.  It was also the first day that Sherlock and John had not been rushed off their feet from case to case. In fact, neither one had even looked at the website, vowing that unless it was an absolute emergency, they were otherwise engaged.  They had promised Gabriel the biggest Christmas tree in London… well, the largest that would fit in the flat… and a promise is a promise.  Molly and Mary had even agreed to accompany them on their search.  All had been agreeable until Sherlock dared to suggest that Gabriel wear a scarf.

“It strangles us!” Gabriel shrieked, doing a stellar impersonation of Gollum.  He’d been obsessed with the Lord of the Rings trilogy for the last few weeks.  “It burns us!”

“Funny,” Sherlock replied.  “It’s very cold and very windy and I can’t deal with anymore sickness.  Put your scarf on.”

“But it’s sunny out…” Gabriel started.

“The sun has very little to do with the actual temperature.”  His expression was unmoving as he held it out to his child. 

Gabriel stared at the offending strip of wool and then up at his father.  Sherlock could tell that he was trying to decide if a scarf was worth a tantrum.  He finally took the scarf and threw it around his shoulders casually.  “Happy?”

“Not in the least.  How is that supposed to keep you warm?  If you just throw it around your shoulders, it’s more of an accessory.”

Gabriel thought this over.  “If I wear a scarf, do I have to wear my coat?”

“Yes.”

“But Daaaad…” he whined.  “I’m hot.”

“You’re not hot,” Sherlock countered, beginning to lose patience.  “Once you get outside, you’ll be cold enough.  And chin up, at least you don’t have to wear a hat or gloves.”  He laughed at Gabriel’s dark expression and took the scarf from him, doubling and tying it around the boy’s neck.

They turned, hearing familiar feminine voices ascending the stairs.  Molly and Mary were chattering to one another as they entered the flat.  “Is this where they keep the biggest Christmas tree in London?” Mary called.

“Not yet,” Gabriel answered, hugging Mary around the waist.  “But it will be.”

“I still don’t understand why we have to bring outside things inside,” Sherlock grumbled.  “The needles and sap will be everywhere.  Not to mention it’s a dead plant that will inevitably dry out and burn the house down.”

“You’re such a party pooper,” Molly scolded Sherlock, getting up on tiptoes to kiss his cheek lightly.  “Let the boy have his Christmas tree.”

“I suppose you probably think I should let him go traipsing around London half-naked as well,” he grumbled, slipping an arm around her waist.  It was a casual gesture that should seem alien to Sherlock, but instead came easily.

“No, but you don’t have to be such a Grinch either.” 

“A what?”

“Doctor Molly!” Gabriel called, stretching to be picked up.  She obliged and hugged him affectionately.  He shot his father a triumphant smirk over his shoulder and kissed her cheek.  “Did you bring clothes so you can sleep over again?”

“Uhm…well…” she stammered.

“What’s this?” Mary asked, barely noticing that John had come down the stairs to embrace her from behind.  She dragged him along, walking toward them.  “Sleeping over?”  Suddenly everyone was talking at once:

“You know, _Pines and Needles_ won’t be open forever,” Molly stalled.

“It’s only three o’clock,” Mary said.  “We have plenty of time to stand here and chat.”

“But you slept over last night, Doctor Molly—“ Gabriel continued.

“Can we please just go?” Sherlock sighed miserably.

John mumbled in Mary’s ear, “I’ll fill you in later.”

“I always assumed that Sherlock was like a dragon.  He just flew over and fertilized the female eggs,” Mary mused.  “Isn’t that where we got Gabriel?”

“I’m not a dragon,” Gabriel giggled.

“Maybe they actually, literally slept,” Mary offered.

“Uhmm… no…” John replied.  “Given what I heard before she went home to change…”

“All right!” Sherlock shouted over the din of noise.  “Would everyone just shut it so we can go?”

**OoOoOo**

_Pines and Needles_ is **the** place to go in London for a Christmas tree.  It must be.  There were thousands of people crammed into it, all of them hemming and hawing over a myriad of trees that, to Sherlock, all looked exactly the same.  Gabriel was amazed.  He’d never seen anything like it.  Everywhere you looked there were themed trees, tall trees, short trees, some that were fake, some that had been spray painted pink and even some that were made of straw or sculpted metal.  He was even able to ignore the constant chatter and boiling movement of the crowd in favor of running through the aisles of decorated trees.  Finally, Sherlock and Molly had taken both his hands and made him walk along with them after a close call with a Victorian style tree. 

“I want to go that way!” he whined, pulling them toward the other side of the store. 

“You have to calm down, Gabe,” Molly said.  “You’re going to hurt yourself.”

“No I’m not!  You’re all too slow,” he grumbled.

“We’re waiting on John and Mary,” Sherlock reminded him.  “They were going to find us a trolley.”

“But I want to go over there!” he cried, pointing at the roped off area where all the naked trees were held captive. 

“Just wait!” Sherlock shouted. Gabriel responded with a monumental pout, but he stood still. 

Molly laid her other hand on Sherlock’s shoulder to calm him. She whispered, “Remember.  He’s five.  And he’s never really had Christmas before.  You’re going to have to be a little more patient.” 

Sherlock cut his eyes toward her and nodded slightly.  They stood silently for a moment, watching the chaos around them.  Finally Sherlock spoke up.  “They’re drag queens.”

“What?”

“These trees.  They look like backstage at a drag show.”  He watched as a young man carried a tree over to a large metal stand.  The young man stood the tree up in the stand, pulled a lever and then, with a terrific noise, a drill shot up from underneath and bobbed up and down, boring a hole in the trunk of the tree in seconds.  “Oh my God…”  Sherlock looked disgusted.

“What?” Molly said.

“And to add insult to injury, they’re raping the poor thing.” 

Molly dissolved in laughter.  “That’s the hole for the tree stand, you idiot.  So it will stand up straight.”

“It looks obscene,” he said, his voice cracking with contained giggles.

Before they lost it completely, John and Mary returned with the trolley.  “I thought we were going to have to run over this old lady for the last trolley in the corral.”

There’s always an ominous calm before any storm.  Everyone was happy and laughing.  Couples were holding hands.  For a few minutes, Gabriel even sat on his father’s shoulders.  And then, disaster on Aisle Five. 

The fir trees.

**OoOoOo**

The thing that sucks about shopping with adults is that a kid never gets to see what he wants to see.  He has to wander around aimlessly at the end of someone’s arm looking at all sorts of things in which he hasn’t the slightest interest.  Gabriel was becoming more and more familiar with this sensation.  Whenever he went to the market with John or Mrs. Hudson, they never let him go down the toy aisle or the candy aisle.  The last time he had to go clothes shopping, he just followed Mary around where she picked out things _she_ liked and then spent an hour putting them on him and taking them off.  By the time they got home, he was tired and weepy.  By the time they had finally perused all the lights, ornaments, tree skirts, stockings, fake snow, ribbons and gift wrap, Gabriel had started to think that the actual trees were just an illusion that they used to draw kids into the store. 

They turned the corner and for a moment, Gabriel could hear angels singing.  The tree area!  He could smell the light, woodsy scent of the different trees.  It was much more pungent than when he went outside, even at St. Christopher’s where there had been a wide expanse of forest behind the chapel.  Unlike the other trees all over the store, these were completely bare, just waiting to be taken home and trimmed with baubles, ribbons and chocolates.  There were all sizes: short and fat, tall and skinny.  He couldn’t help himself anymore and broke away from his dad and Molly, running toward the manufactured forest. 

“I like this one,” John said, walking up to a short cedar tree with wide, lacy looking branches.  It had not been put through the Christmas pencil sharpener so it looked as if they had just ripped it up out of the forest. 

“It doesn’t look like a Christmas tree, John,” Mary giggled. 

“Sure it does.  I mean, it’s a tree.”

“Christmas trees are supposed to be bright green and triangular.”

“This one isn’t bad.”  Everyone jumped when Sherlock spoke.  They hadn’t expected him to offer an opinion about anything.  He stood next to a tall fir tree that was thin and prickly. 

“You’d never get that one up the stairs,” Molly sighed.

“Has anyone else noticed that John and Sherlock chose themselves as trees?” Mary mumbled. 

“I like this one!” Gabriel shrieked.  He’d run down to the end of the aisle to where the trees started to get a little dodgy.  It was like the Christmas tree graveyard.  Most of them had bald spots, crooked trunks, or sparse foliage. The tree Gabriel stood in front of looked as if it should be adorning Schroder’s piano on the Charlie Brown Christmas Special. 

“What is that?” Sherlock asked, receiving smacks from both Molly and John.  “I mean, wow.”

“Can’t we have this tree?” Gabriel begged. 

“Have it? They might pay us to take it,” Sherlock replied, dodging the blows this time.  “I said you could have whichever one you wanted.”

Mary knelt down to Gabe’s level.  “Don’t you want something a little… you know… bigger?” 

“That’s what she said,” John muttered, he and Sherlock snorting simultaneously.

“No,” he replied, his expression stoic.  “I like this one.  It’s the one nobody wants.”

Suddenly Sherlock piped up.  “It’s perfect. Oi!” he called to the clerk that stood nearby.  “This is the one I want.” The clerk, looking at them strangely, netted the pitiful looking tree and carried it up to the front of the store to wait for them.  “Excellent.  It only took us two hours,” he grumbled, holding his hand out to Gabriel.  “Let’s go.”  When the boy didn’t immediately take his hand, he turned to see him on the other side of the aisle, gazing at a bright display.

The other side of the aisle was devoted to spectacular light displays, mostly for the outside of your house.   There were wreaths made of light as well as animatronic reindeer that glowed, angels with ethereal wings and the like.  On the very end, in perhaps the strangest expression of Christmas cheer ever, was a life-sized statue of Jack Skellington, the depressed Pumpkin King, all dressed up as “the Sandy Claws.”  Sherlock could tell from the look on Gabriel’s face that he was completely transfixed.  The big, round skull glowed spookily and his arms and torso moved.  “Wicked,” Gabriel sighed as he gaped up at the figure. 

“I love that movie,” Molly said strolling over to where he stood.  “I always fancied myself a Sally.”

“Dad, can’t we have this?” Gabriel asked, running over to Sherlock and grabbing hold of his coat.

Sherlock shook his head. “Gabe, that’s really an outside sort of decoration.  Since we don’t have a garden…”

“But you said that the tree was an outside sort of decoration too, but we’re getting one of those,” he countered.

“That’s different.”

“Gabriel, that thing is way too big for the flat,” John said.  He peered down at the price tag hung around Jack’s outstretched fingertip.  “Holy Mary…” he gasped. 

“It isn’t a toy, Gabriel.  And it’s way too expensive for something like that…”

“Please?  It could go in my room!  I wouldn’t need my nightlight anymore,” he begged, tugging at his father’s coat insistently.  “Pleeaaaassseeee?”

“I don’t think so, Gabe.  It would take up too much space in your room.  You’d break it trying to get to the wardrobe.  For God’s sake, it’s taller than I am.  It might not even fit!”

“Yes it will!  Pleeeaassseee?  Please, please, please!”

“The long progression of ‘pleases’ really isn’t going to sway my decision,” Sherlock sighed.  “I said no.”

Gabriel glared at him, his eyes narrowing and his mouth pulling into a murderous scowl.  He crossed his arms in front of his chest in a stance that said he was not moving from this spot until he got what he wanted.  It was a stance that Sherlock knew very well.  Only he was usually the one with his arms crossed.  “You never get me what I want,” the little boy growled.

“Oh really?” Sherlock chuckled.  The others saw the writing on the wall and began walking away slowly.  John shooed them toward the front of the store.  “Never?”

“Never! You don’t even want me around.  The only reason you let me stay is because the police say you have to.”

“That’s ridiculous, Gabriel,” he said.  “I let you stay because you’re my child and I love you.  But I’m still not buying an enormous animatronic skeleton.”  He was concentrating on keeping his jaw clenched and his breath even.  This would not be the place to completely lose his temper with his child.  Little known fact was that despite Sherlock’s prickly disposition, most of the time he was pretty temperate.  Even when he was annoyed.  It took a lot to set him off, but once the boiling point came, it was an explosion of epic proportions.  And the warning of impending danger was a quiet calm.  Much like the quiet calm he was currently exhibiting.

“No you don’t!” Gabriel cried, angry tears starting to gather in the corners of his eyes.  “If you loved me at all, you’d get it for me!”

“Really?  So that trolley full of fairy lights and decorations was all for me.  Oh and then there’s the piles of clothes, toys, books and art supplies that are strewn all over my house all the time—those are all for me too.  Then of course, I employed Mary just so John would have a companion.  And let us not forget the numerous times I’ve given you food, taken you to the park, cleaned up after you when you were sick, tucked you into bed, read you stories—even going so far as to act them out for your pleasure.  Not to mention that I have changed my entire way of life to accommodate you, but none of those things should indicate that I have any love for you whatsoever!” 

Gabriel’s expression softened slightly and he sighed.  “Please, Dad.  I won’t ask for anything else.”

“No.  Let’s go.”  He offered Gabriel his hand once more.  The boy just looked at it, keeping his arms folded in front of him.  “Come on, Gabe. Everyone is waiting for us.”

“No!” he said.  “You said I could have whatever I wanted!”

“I said you could have whatever tree you wanted.  That is not a tree. Don’t try to trick me, Gabriel.  I said no.  This conversation is over.”  He offered his hand once more. “Come on.  Now.”

Gabriel turned up his nose defiantly.  “No.”  He stomped his foot defiantly for emphasis.  With a sideward glance, Sherlock noticed that people were starting to stare at their standoff.  He would have to diffuse this quickly. 

“Fine.  The rest of us are leaving for dinner and then to decorate the tree. Laters.”  He turned on his heel and started off up the aisle, knowing that the child would immediately realize that his resolve was iron clad and come running.  He only made it halfway before he heard the screaming.  Sherlock turned to see that Gabriel had thrown himself down on the concrete floor, kicking and screaming in the throes of a full-on five-year old Christmas meltdown.  He’d had tantrums before but never in public and never to this degree.  He’d shout and cry but eventually, Sherlock would triumph.  Even the drama over the bathing problem had flared up quickly but was gone just as fast.  This time, it was as if some demon had taken over Gabriel’s body.  Store patrons and clerks had stopped to watch his little performance and Sherlock was sorely tempted just to keep walking. 

He turned and walked back to his child, feeling his own rage welling up.  Gabriel’s face was bright red, almost purple in places as if his anger had bruised him.  His tiny fists beat the tile floor and he’d nearly kicked one of his shoes off with his flailing.  He was screaming and crying, unintelligibly for the most part, but Sherlock was able to pick out “I hate you,” and “You’re the meanest dad in the world.” It was obvious that this situation was now beyond reason.  He would have to do something.  They were drawing a crowd.  Swallowing his anger, he strode over to the child and bent over, throwing him over one shoulder.  Sherlock carefully avoided Gabriel’s fists and feet as he walked toward the front of the store, but the assault on his eardrum was inescapable.  One arm held onto the squirming child while the other fished around in his pocket for his wallet. 

As they passed through to the front of the store, Gabriel’s wails had turned to shuddering sobs with an occasional, “Put me down,” thrown in for good measure.

“My God, is everything all right?” John asked, spotting them from where the rest of the group stood with their shopping trolley. 

“We’re fine,” Sherlock replied curtly, tossing his wallet at John.  “See you at home.”

**OoOoOo**

“Do you think we should take them something to eat?” Mary asked, putting her napkin aside and finishing the wine at the bottom of her glass. 

John shook his head vigorously. “Nooo… in fact, I’m not even sure we should go home.  Ever again.”  He smiled warmly at the waitress who brought the bill.  “Ta.”

“Oh!” Molly exclaimed.  “We’ll need that split up. I’m on my own…”

“No no,” John said.  “I’ve got it.  Sherlock meant to pay for you.”  He pushed Molly’s card back across the table and handed the waitress his own.

“Thanks.  You didn’t have to do that,” she stammered.  “I’m capable of buying my own dinner.”  John and Mary were so sweet, trying their best to keep her from feeling like a third wheel.  She’d considered taking a cab back home when they left Pines and Needles, but they had insisted that she eat with them.  Both had been pussy-footing around the subject of her and Sherlock.  They clearly wanted to know what was going on, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to tell them.  It wasn’t as if Molly didn’t know that everyone in the world was well aware of her infatuation with Sherlock and had been for some time. 

The first time she met him, he’d looked very different from the man she knew now.  He had been painfully thin with pale skin, drawn features and a mane of wild black curly hair that almost reached his shoulders.  He was not refined in the least, wearing tattered blue jeans and a black teeshirt, a cigarette in the corner of his mouth.  He’d had obvious track marks on his forearms and was shaking from DTs.  Lestrade had hauled him in to look at a body in exchange for not being arrested for possession.  In thirty seconds he’d determined the cause of death, the time of death, where the body had been before being dumped, along with the murderer’s height, build and possible occupation. Sherlock didn’t remember, but he’d propositioned her that night to gain access to the drug cabinet.  Still a naïve student, she’d been completely flustered by his aggressive advances, his brilliance even in an opiate haze and the jerky, yet graceful movement of his body.  As soon as he’d left, Mike Stamford had said, with a knowing glance, “I think Miss Hooper is ruined forevermore.”  The fact is, Molly wore her heart on her sleeve at all times and it was pretty pointless now to try and hide it.

“Molly, could you go with me to the bathroom?” Mary asked, rising from the table.  “I hate going alone.”  John raised his eyebrow and she grinned like the cat that ate the canary.

As soon as they were out of earshot, Mary grabbed Molly’s arm and pulled her forcefully into the bathroom. “Ow!  Jesus, Mary!”

“Okay… no more beating about the bush.  I want to hear everything.  Every minute detail.  A play-by-play.  Leave nothing out.”

“Uhm… what are you talking about?”  Molly was very good at playing dumb.

“Oh come on, Molly.  We’ve been friends for ages and for most of it, I’ve been having to listen to you moon over Sherlock Holmes.  Now spill it.”

“Well… what do you want to know?” she stammered, her eyes darting around the room and praying that no one else was in the ladies’ room. 

“What’s he like?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know very well what I mean, Miss Molly.  You’re no virgin.  What was he like in bed?”

Molly’s mouth hung agape, disbelieving that she was being asked such an indelicate and personal question.  Her cheeks felt hot and suddenly it was as if her skin was stretched too tightly.  But then, the smile that had been threatening to break through finally made its way to the surface and she almost giggled as she sank down on the settee in the lounge area.  “You’re right, I’m no virgin, but I never knew it could make your eye twitch like that.  I literally thought I was going blind.”


	16. On the Naughty List

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Gabriel repents and gets an eyeful.

“Okay, I’ll go in first and if all is well, I’ll wave you in,” John whispered as they slipped through the front door.  He spied Mrs. Hudson in her sitting room and entered quietly.  “Mrs. Hudson?”

“Oh!  Hello, dear.  You startled me,” she said, clutching her cardigan closely around her shoulders. 

“Hi, uhm… is everything all right?” John stammered.

“Well… I think so.  It’s all been quiet up there for about forty-five minutes.  But gracious, for a while there it was a warzone. Though I have to hand it to Sherlock, he was very calm.  He wasn’t shouting or anything.  I’ve never seen Gabriel so out of sorts, the poor dear.  Kicking and screaming and crying.  It was terrible.  But all seems to be quiet now.”

“Do you think we should go up or just leave them alone?” Mary asked, taking John’s arm as he led both girls up the stairs.  “I mean, it would seem to be a row between the two of them.  I don’t want to feel like we’re intruding.”

John shook his head.  “For one thing, I live here so I have every right to be in my own house.  For another, we might need to check and make sure Gabriel’s still alive.”

“You think Sherlock was that angry?” Molly said.  “Mrs. Hudson said he was pretty calm.  And he didn’t look too… agitated when they left the store.”

“That’s what scares me.” 

The trio entered the flat reluctantly, peering around the corner as they emerged from the hallway and into the sitting room.  Sherlock stood at the window with his violin and bow in one hand and scribbling on staff paper with his other.  Gabriel was nowhere to be seen nor heard.  A pile of bags and the sparse Christmas tree that Gabe had chosen were in the corner waiting.  They moved across the floor as one entity, all of them afraid that the gates of Hell were about to open.  John nudged Molly’s arm, implying that since she was apparently now sleeping with Sherlock, that she should be the one to approach the beast, as it were.  “Hi!” she chirped, trying to sound cheerful.

“Hello,” Sherlock replied, regarding them all with a terse grin and going back to his music.  Tucking the violin under his chin, he began to play.  The song wasn’t happy, but it wasn’t sad or dirge-like.  It gave one the oddest sense that it was about to storm.

“Is that good or bad?” Molly whispered to John.  He shrugged, but deemed it safe enough to take off his coat.  The others followed suit and moved around the flat, talking quietly amongst themselves.  Molly hung her coat on the hook by the door and tried to be casual as she approached Sherlock.  She placed her hand in the small of his back in a calming, but affectionate gesture.  He splattered one of the notes and sighed, interrupted.  “Oh… I’m sorry,” she stammered, starting to walk away.  He reached out and gripped her arm gently, stopping her.

“No need,” he replied, brushing a kiss lightly on her mouth.  “I’m just a little tense is all.”

“Everything okay?” she asked.

“Fine,” he replied.  “They delivered the tree and all the other stuff just before you got here.”  He gestured toward the door with the bow of his violin. 

“Do you still think we should… you know… put it up?” Molly asked. 

“By all means,” Sherlock replied, setting his violin aside.  “The tree will dry out completely if we don’t.  It looks like the poor thing’s on its last legs anyway.” 

“Where’s Gabriel?  I mean, should we get him?  It is _his_ Christmas tree…” John said.

Sherlock shook his head.  “He’ll come down when he’s ready.  I’ll go check on him in a little while if he’s not down when we get ready to put the lights on it.”  Mary turned on the stereo, finding a station of nothing but Christmas music.  John opened a bottle of wine and poured everyone a glass, including Mrs. Hudson who walked up from downstairs once she heard the all clear.  Soon everyone was talking and laughing, almost relaxed.  Sherlock and John cursed at one another playfully as they tried to maneuver the tree into the stand they’d purchased.  “We have to violate the thing once more by shoving this spike into the hole?”

“And beat the shit out of it with a hammer, yes.”

Mrs. Hudson opened up a box of ornaments that she’d brought up.  “I saved these.  I don’t usually do a tree anymore since my children are gone, but I thought we might need more.”  The girls oohed and ahhed over the delicate, Victorian styled ornaments that she’d carefully wrapped in tissue paper and saved.  “I didn’t have many left after the divorce.” 

“Oh, we have to remember the chains and popcorn Gabe and I strung,” Mary said, stepping over the boxes and going to the cupboard. 

“Oh look!”  Molly exclaimed, pulling a delicate ornament from Mrs. Hudson’s stash.  “It’s mistletoe.” 

Mrs. Hudson smiled wistfully, obvious memories welling up in her eyes. “It’s real, you know.  My husband climbed into the top of a tree in Hyde Park to get that down for me.  We were so young.  Long before he lost his marbles, the poor dear.  I sprayed it with lacquer to keep it pretty like that.  I can’t believe it’s lasted so long.”

“Oh, then we have to put it up someplace,” Molly said.  “Perhaps down in your flat, Mrs. H.?”

“Good heavens, no.  There’s no kissing going on down there.  Though I’ve heard there’s plenty up here…” 

Molly giggled and took the mistletoe to Sherlock.  “Where should we hang it?” she asked, lacing it between her fingers. 

“Over your head, of course,” he replied, taking the plant from her and holding it over their heads before kissing her lips and drawing an exaggerated _awwww_ from the rest of the room.  He gave a wink and hung it carefully over the archway at the top of the stairs.  “There.  Now no one is safe.”  When he turned around, he noticed that Gabriel was sitting at the foot of the stairs watching.  “Oh.  Hello.”

The kid looked wrecked.  His eyes were puffy and his hair was all over the place.  His clothes were wrinkled and smudged with dirt from the floor at the shop.  His feet were bare save for his stripey socks.  He sat on the stairs with his knees under his chin.  “Hi.”

“Why are you sitting over here by yourself?” Sherlock asked, kneeling down in front of him. 

Gabriel shrugged.  “I didn’t think you wanted me around.”

“Of course I want you around.  Everyone wants you around.” 

“You said I had to stay in my room…”

“Until you calmed down.  Are you calm?”

“Yes,” Gabe sighed.  “I’m not mad anymore.”  He looked down at his feet, tapping his fingers nervously on his knees.  “Are you?”

“No.  However, you and I need to come to an understanding.”  Reaching behind him, he closed the door between the hall and the stairwell quietly.  “You will never get what you want throwing a tantrum.  Have I ever given you any indication that such behavior will affect my decision on any matter?”

“No.”

“Good.  Because if you ever put me or our friends in that position again, I won’t be nearly as understanding.  No means no and given the fact that, despite the absurdity of the idea, I am the father in this situation, what I say goes.”  Sherlock stared, unblinking and stoic, at Gabriel. 

The boy nodded.  “Yes, Dad.”  He sniffled. “I’m sorry.”

“I know,” Sherlock said with grin.  He jerked his head, beckoning him forward.  “Come here.”  Gabriel threw his arms around his father’s neck, hugging him tightly.  He stood up, Gabriel dangling around his neck and giggling.  “Are you hungry?” he asked, stumbling through the door to where the others had already begun stringing lights.

“Kind of.”

“What do you want?” Sherlock asked, dropping him off on a kitchen chair.

“I dunno.  What do we have?  A sandwich I guess.”

“What sort?  Jam?  Peanut butter?  Marmite and cheese?”  He said the last one with a hint of sarcasm.  Deathpaste indeed. 

**OoOoOo**

“Eeww... no… peanut butter will do.”  As Sherlock prepared the sandwich, Gabriel hopped down from the chair and wandered into the sitting room.  The others regarded him with smiles and hugs.  It was a surprise.  He’d assumed that the adults would be angry, but they all acted as if nothing had happened.  “What are you doing?” he asked John, leaning on the doctor’s side as he untangled the lights. 

“I can honestly say I’m not sure.  You’d think that fairy lights fresh out of the box would be untangled and neat.  Not so, apparently.” 

Gabriel chewed at his lower lip for a second and then pointed.  “Take the twisty-tie off.”

“Oh.  Yes. Thanks, Gabe.”  John ruffled his hair and began unrolling the light strand.  Mary came around behind them with another strand. 

Kneeling down, she hooked her strand into John’s and kissed Gabe on the top of his head.  “Feeling better, chum?”

He nodded, taking a triangle of the peanut butter sandwich his father put in front of him.  It was gooey and stuck to the roof of his mouth with just enough jam to be sickeningly sweet.  Just the way he liked it. 

“Shouldn’t we test those lights before you put them on the tree?” Molly offered as John and Sherlock began wrapping the strands around the tree. 

“Why?” they answered in unison.  “They’re brand new.”

“Well that doesn’t necessarily mean they aren’t defective,” Mary said. 

“Don’t try to tell them anything,” Mrs. Hudson mused, her arms crossed haughtily in front of her chest.  “They know everything about decorating trees.” 

“It’ll be fine,” Sherlock sighed, gesturing for Gabriel to hand him another strand.  He turned back to notice that John was wrapping the lights around each individual branch.  “Oh for God’s sake! We’ll be here all night if you keep on like that!”

“This is how you’re supposed to do it!”

“Maybe if you push them down toward the trunk more,” Molly interrupted. 

“You aren’t _supposed_ to do it like that.  We’ll never get them off again!”

“Well if you’d rather do it yourself!  I’m sure you and your _massive intellect_ can do a much better job!”

Mary bravely stepped between them and took the lights from John.  “Go… sit down!  Both of you!”  She handed a strand to Molly and another to Mrs. Hudson.  In five minutes, the lights were evenly distributed and the trio of women were staring triumphantly. 

John cleared his throat.  “There’s a spot just there….”  

All three turned a murderous glare on him.  “Yeah?”

“Nothing.”

**OoOoOo**

It was late when the last ornaments were placed on the tree.  Looking up at the tree now, it seemed silly that they had been worried that they wouldn’t have enough decoration.  The Charlie Brown tree now looked almost full with baubles, chocolates, tinsel, popcorn strings, and fairy lights.  Everyone had dribbled out slowly, even John and Mary who had decided to retire to her flat.  Gabriel passed out under the tree, so exhausted that he was snoring lightly.  Sherlock had managed to get him into his bed without waking him. When he arrived back downstairs, Molly was dozing on the couch, her wine glass balanced precariously between her fingertips.  He rescued it just before she tipped it over, spilling the remaining drops of Riesling on the floor. 

“Oh!” she exclaimed, starting as she awoke.  “Sorry… I must have dozed off for a  minute.”

“It’s late,” he murmured, taking her hand and pulling her into his embrace. He tipped her chin higher and kissed her gently. “Let’s go to bed,” he whispered against her lips.  Molly nodded, almost obediently.  She took his hand to follow him.  As they negotiated around the coffee table, Molly hit her knee on the corner, stumbling forward. 

“Ow…”

Sherlock sighed, feigning annoyance.  “Really, Dr. Hooper!  Are we going to have to resort to wrapping you in bubble wrap?”  Before she could reply, he swept her dramatically into his arms and carried her into the bedroom, kicking the door shut behind them. 

**OoOoOo**

Gabriel woke up just as the dragon raised its body to breathe fire and completely annihilate him. “Dad!” he called out, sitting up fast. It was dark, save for his nightlight and it took him a moment for his eyes to adjust. He rubbed them, staring around the room to be sure that the great and terrible red dragon hadn’t followed him from his dreams and into his room. The colored starbursts behind his eyes seemed to morph into the fiery eyes and gnashing teeth. He pulled the blankets up higher and called out for his father again. “Daddy!” he shouted. But no one came. Not even John. Why couldn’t they hear him? Maybe the dragon had gotten to them first. Gabriel chewed his lower lip, trying to remind himself that there were no such things as dragons. He would have to just be brave and go downstairs on his own.

Slowly, he swung his legs over and stepped out of bed. He paused, waiting to see if he could feel any warm breath on his toes. Feeling nothing, he crept out the door and down the hall. The third step from the bottom squeaked and Gabriel tried not to hit it. Just in case he was being stalked. When he arrived at the bottom, he peeked around the corner. Nothing but darkness and a few blades of light from the windows. He decided it was safe enough and he started down the corridor.

His father’s door was closed. That would explain why he couldn’t hear him calling. It was also strange. He never closed his bedroom door at night. As he got closer, Gabriel noticed that he could hear voices. He wrinkled his brow, wondering who would be talking so late at night. He couldn’t make out what was being said, but one was obviously his father’s deep, resonating tone. The other was quieter and higher-pitched, with a lot of highs and lows, almost like singing. Then, what sounded like a giggle.

When Gabriel got to the door, he turned the knob carefully, finding that it was not locked. The door creaked as it opened just a crack. He peered around the door. “Dad?”

“Gabriel!” he exclaimed, pulling a pillow down and covering Molly’s face with it while simultaneously pulling the duvet over them. “What are you doing out of bed?” His voice was higher than usual and he was out of breath.

“Is that Doctor Molly in there?”

“Hi Gabe!” her muffled voice called from under the pillow. Her slender arm shot up to wave at him.

“Are you ok? It sounds like you can’t breathe,” Gabriel continued.

“We’re fine. Did you need something?” Sherlock asked.

“I had a bad dream. Can I have a cup of water?”

“Yeah… just uhm… wait in the hall a second…” Gabriel shrugged and walked out the door, closing it behind him. Sherlock threw the pillow aside, looking down at Molly. “We have to start locking that door…”


	17. Tis' the Season for Heroes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Molly is having troubles at work and Sherlock isn't having it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story was began last year around Christmas time and is still going. That's why the distinctive holiday feel continues throughout the first chapters.

“Yes, Sir. I’ll get on it right away.” Molly sighed, backing out of the new pathology chief’s office. The mountains of files were piled so high that she couldn’t see where she was going as she made her way back to the lab. Her cheeks burned with anger and frustration. That man had been making her life miserable ever since they hired him on three weeks before. He’d made it perfectly clear that he believed women had no place in forensic medicine, or in medicine for that matter. Unless, of course, it was as a nurse. It was also rumored that he was making a bid to clean out the department and push his own protégé into her position. If only Mike was still here. He’d always regarded Molly as his most gifted student. She was also the only one of her colleagues that could deal with Sherlock. But Mike had been promoted to an associate dean and was mostly in the classroom. That’s when Doctor Doom had been hired to take over. In those vengeful cockles of her heart, she secretly wished that he would happen to run into Sherlock. The creepy little toad would undoubtedly say something stupid and it would give Molly great pleasure to watch him be verbally annihilated.

She managed to make it down the hall, into the elevator and down to the basement with her heavy burden. The double doors leading into the mortuary were cracked. “Finally, a bit of luck,” she sighed. There was no way she’d be able to retrieve her keycard with all this crap in her arms. Her arms that were now screaming with overexertion. Just as she reached the doors and was about to stick her foot between them, John Watson came barreling through. File folders went everywhere as the edge of the door made contact with Molly’s nose.

“Oh God…Molly… I’m so sorry…” John stammered. “Are you all right?”

She sat down pitifully on the floor and began to weep profusely.

“Shit… Molly.” He knelt down beside her, pulling her arm over his shoulder to help her up. Her nose had begun to bleed and the area under both eyes was already beginning to swell. She’d have quite a set of black eyes before long. “Come on… we need to get that fixed up.”

“But… the folders…” she sobbed. “Everything is jumbled now. Ruined!”

“I’ll take care of those,” John soothed, pulling her into the lab and making her sit down on a gurney. “You just sit here and I’ll get some gauze and ice.” She directed him to where the first aid kits were tearfully. She wanted to stop crying, but she just couldn’t. The stress of her day meshed with the pain in her face and the humiliation of crying in front of John. It had taken its toll and now that she’d started, she just couldn’t stop.

“Oh God… Sherlock’s not with you is he?”

“No,” John replied, coming back with a bag full of ice. “He said to come here and collect a toxicology report from you. He’s still in Brighton. Do you want me to call him?”

“God no… I don’t want him to see me like this,” she whined. Her voice had taken on the hollow, distorted tone of someone with a blocked up nose as her face swelled.

John tipped her head back and handed her the ice pack. “Keep this on it. That should help the swelling some. It doesn’t look broken or anything.” She knew there was blood running down her face, but honestly she didn’t care. She could only cry harder, hoping that her tears would wash some of the blood away. “It’s all right, Molly. Just calm down. You’re going to be fine.”

“Oh it’s not my stupid nose,” she spat. “My new boss is an idiot and I think he’s trying to kill me.”

“What do you mean?” John asked, brushing her hair away from her face. “This is obviously not just some scattered folders and a bloody nose.”

“He just gave me back all those folders and is making me do them over! He said they were all wrong, that’d I’d been doing them wrong for years and no one had bothered to correct me! This is on top of the three double shifts he scheduled me for this week, all the additional paperwork he’s mandated and…” Her voice caught in her throat. “… and he’s making me work Christmas! I’ve worked here for eight years to get to be off on Christmas Eve night and Christmas Day! And now this year… the first time I’ve actually…had someplace to be… people to share the holiday with… and that… odious creature is trying to take it away!” She collapsed against John’s shoulder crying pitifully like a little kid. “I’m so sorry, John… I don’t mean to just go to pieces on you. But I’m just so… frustrated! He’s always yelling at me and pushing me further and further… I just don’t know how much more I can take! This morning, knowing I was going to have to work with him today… I threw up twice!”

John embraced his friend, letting her cry on his shoulder. He was sympathetic, but also furious that someone out there could possibly be mean to someone as sweet and kind as Molly Hooper. “How long has this been going on?”

“They hired him three weeks ago,” she sniffled. “And I haven’t really let it get to me until today. I just did my best to avoid him and got on with it. But last night he left me a note to come to his office when I came in this morning and that’s when he started yelling at me about those stupid charts and then he told me about the Christmas schedule. All the while one of those scumsucking interns of his was standing right there watching me be humiliated. I mean… I’m good at my job, damnit!” She paused and looked up at John uncertainly. “Aren’t I?”

**OoOoOo**

“She was a mess, Mary. Really. I’m worried about her.” John sighed, taking a sip of his coffee as he sat on a bench in the park, watching Gabriel play.

“The guy sounds like an insufferable bully,” Mary agreed. “Poor Molly. Do you think we should do something? Maybe tell Sherlock?”

John laughed mirthlessly. “Oh nooo…. No no no. That would definitely not be the thing to do. I mean, you know how he is. If he threw that guy out the window at Bart’s, he’d do more damage than a couple of fractured ribs. I don’t think Lestrade could get him out of that one. No matter how much the guy deserved it.”

Gabriel and his friend Katie ran over to them. Their cheeks were red with the cold and both were laughing like a couple of drains. “Who is this pretty little bird?” John asked, handing Gabe his cup of hot chocolate.

“This is Katie. She’s my friend. She lives around the corner.” Gabriel passed Katie his cup. “Mary makes the best hot chocolate ever. And this is my John,” he said to Katie. “He doesn’t usually come to the park with us.”

“Hello, Mary!” Katie said brightly, wiping hot chocolate off of her chin. “Hello, John. Do you live with Gabriel and his daddy?”

“Yeah, Gabriel’s dad and me are flatmates.”

“John’s like dad’s best friend. Like you’re mine,” he said, throwing an arm around Katie’s shoulders. “And he’s Mary’s boyfriend.”

“Oh, ok!” she agreed, reciprocating Gabriel’s embrace as Mary took a picture of them with her phone.

“Gabe, it’s getting late and cold,” John said, tightening the child’s scarf a little. “We’ll have to go in just a few minutes.”

“Ten minutes?” Gabe asked hopefully.

“Five,” Mary answered. “I can’t feel my feet.” Gabriel nodded and the two of them scampered off across the playground.

**OoOoOo**

Gabriel fell down in the pile of leaves beside Katie, both of them looking up at the sky. “Did you mean what you said, Gabe?”

“When?” he asked, panting after their chase.

“Am I your best friend?” she asked.

“Sure. I don’t really have any others. Well, not others that are little like me.”

Katie smiled, her cheeks a little more rosy than they were before. “I’m glad you’re my friend, Gabriel.” She took his hand and laced their fingers together. “I don’t have a lot of friends. Some kids say I’m a show off.”

“What’s wrong with that? My dad says that it’s no fun being smart if you can’t prove it.”

Katie giggled. “I wish you went to my school, Gabe. Then I’d have one friend, at least.” Katie sat up fast, hearing her mom calling. “Oops… I have to go. My daddy’s supposed to be home tonight! We’re having spaghetti.” Gabriel scrambled to his feet and helped his friend up. She hugged him tightly and kissed his cheek. “I like you, Gabe. Even if you are a boy.” She started to run toward her mom, then stopped and turned back. “I forgot. My Christmas play is on Friday. Can you come?”

“My dad said he and Molly could take me if I wanted to go.”

“Yay!” she exclaimed, hugging him again before running off.

**OoOoOo**

“I think there’s something wrong with this tree. Every time we find one burned out bulb, another one goes out, knocking out the entire strand,” Molly complained, throwing down the light box in frustration. “We should just set the damn thing on fire!”

Sherlock looked up from his microscope at Molly’s outburst. She had been acting strangely all evening, even going so far as to snap at him when he dared to suggest that her foul mood might be attributed to the imminent arrival of her menses. “I don’t have PMS!” she’d shouted. “And how would you know anyway?”

“I thought that it would be prudent to be aware of such things if we’re going to continue having intercourse,” he’d replied. That was the point at which she’d banished him to his desk.

“Are you sure you’re all right, Molly?” he asked. “You don’t seem yourself tonight. I mean, have I upset you somehow?” He recounted the last couple of hours since he’d returned from Brighton and met her at Baker Street. Aside from the menses remark, he didn’t think he had done or said anything that might have made her angry. He hadn’t even commented on the raccoon appearance of her eyes from where, according to John, she’d run into the wall at Bart’s earlier.

“I’m fine,” she sighed, flopping down in his armchair and flipping the channels on the television boredly.

He pushed back from his desk and went to her. “That is so obviously not the case,” he said and without another word, picked up her small frame and sat down, pulling her into his lap. “Your eyes are narrow and your lips, normally tiny and completely adorable, are pursed so tightly that they’ve nearly disappeared.” Pushing her hair back from her neck, he kissed the corner of her jaw. “And your jaw is tense like you’re gritting your teeth. Not to mention that normally when I touch you, you immediately melt into my arms, but tonight every muscle in your body is pulled taut. So just spill it.”

“Please don’t deduce me tonight,” she sighed, laying her head on his shoulder. “My day has been far too stressful to try and hold my own under your scrutinizing gaze.”

“What happened?”

She sighed.   “Nothing. I don’t want to talk about it. I did need to tell you, though… they changed my schedule for Christmas. I’ll have to work the whole time.”

“I thought you were…”

“Yeah, so did I. But… you know how things go…” She avoided his gaze, suddenly extremely interested in the back of her hand. He started to press, but they heard the door downstairs open and the sound of Gabriel’s footsteps as he raced up the stairs, followed closely by John and Mary. “I’ll be back,” she said, rising from the chair and planting a kiss on the top of Gabriel’s head as she passed. She disappeared down the corridor, Sherlock staring after her with his fingertips steepled under his chin.

“Hi, dad!” Gabriel chirped, gladly taking Molly’s place in his father’s lap and snuggling against him.

“Hey, Gabe,” Sherlock replied, his voice a little distant as he continued to gaze after Molly. “Did you have a nice time in the park?”

“Pretty much,” Gabe said, pulling Sherlock’s magnifier out of his breast pocket. He held it up to his eye so it looked enormous. “Katie’s play is Friday. We’re going aren’t we?”

“If you want to,” Sherlock sighed, his mind still locked on whatever was going on with Molly. She’d run into a wall at work, which was ridiculously clumsy, even for Molly. When he asked about the lab earlier, she’d snapped at him. She’d been speaking in hushed tones on her mobile with Mike Stamford earlier. And then the sudden change in her Christmas schedule that seemed to be a point of particular annoyance. Whatever was wrong with her must have something to do with work. What’s changed in her work lately? The new chief pathologist. Mike got a promotion and they hired a new chief.

“She wants me to,” Gabriel said. “She says she doesn’t have any friends at school. Why do you think that is, dad? Katie’s nice. I mean, I like her.”

“Maybe she’s shy,” he answered absently. “And she does have you. One friend is all anyone really needs, isn’t it?” He looked up at John and Mary who had missed the entire exchange because they couldn’t manage to take their coats off without snogging in the corner. “John! You went to the lab this morning didn’t you?” He nudged Gabriel off of his lap and went into the kitchen.

“Yeah. Remember, I went to pick up that toxicology report from Molly,” John replied, a little annoyed that his smooching session with Mary had been interrupted.

“Did Molly seem… you know… strange?”

Mary nudged John’s arm. “Go ahead. He’ll deduce it out anyway. At least this way is faster.”

John sighed. “Fine. But you have to promise not to overreact, Sherlock.”

“Me? Overreact? I never overreact. When do I overreact?”

“When _don’t_ you overreact?” John asked. “Look, it doesn’t matter. Molly’s new boss is a little…”

“He’s a big bully!” Mary interjected. John squeezed her arm, trying to shut her up, but she just shrugged him off. “He’s working the poor girl to death and giving her a hard time in front of the rest of the staff. You should see her. He makes her so nervous that she’s sick whenever she has to work the dayshift.”

Sherlock was silent. His eyes narrowed to fiery slits and his cheekbones stood out in harsh relief as he locked his jaw. John recognized this expression and sidestepped around Mary, laying a hand on his shoulder. “All right, mate. Just… chill. No throwing anyone out of windows.”

“I have to go out,” Sherlock replied, pushing past John who tried to step in front of him.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” John said. “Besides, we’re about to get dinner.”

“I’m not hungry,” Sherlock answered, not really hearing as he tied his scarf. “I’ll be back in an hour.” John started after him, running down the stairs with his coat in hand, but Sherlock slammed the door in his face and was gone.

**OoOoOo**

Sherlock stood in the park across the street from Bart’s, staring at the back of the building. A cigarette poised between his fingertips offered a tiny ember of light, but beyond that he was hidden by the shadows. It had all clicked in his head when John told him about Molly’s new boss and the botched up medical charts. He was indeed a bully and shady, to boot. Bullies always had something hide. Especially when they were about to be found out by those who were infinitely more clever. The previous week, Mike Stamford had mentioned to him in passing that they were having some trouble at the mortuary. They had lost a few bodies only to have them turn up later. He didn’t think much about it until someone noticed a strange scar that hadn’t been noted on one of the bodies. The body snatching started about the same time as Molly’s new boss. Molly’s strange behavior started just after she mentioned the mix-ups to Mike. Which didn’t necessarily mean that the two were related, but Sherlock was willing to wager that they were.

“Oi! Sherlock!” He turned to see Creed sprinting across the street to meet him. The street kid with the dirty jacket and mohawk hadn’t exactly learned the meaning of discretion.

“So much for not drawing attention,” he grumbled as the boy approached. “Next time why don’t you just borrow a megaphone. That way you can just shout at me from across the street.”

“Sorry, mate. You got the payment?” Sherlock sighed and pulled a twenty pound note from his wallet. “Jesus, man. I been standing out ‘ere in the cold for hours. Give us a break, wilya?”

Sherlock brandished another note but jerked it away as Creed reached for it. “Tell me what I need to know first.” He didn’t trust Creed like the others. He was a junkie and Sherlock knew from experience that you never trust a junkie. But he was the only one of his network that was around on such short notice.

“That doctor showed up here about an hour ago. He looked like he was in a hurry. About ten minutes after he arrived, a car drove up and went through the back there. That loading dock.”

“Has he gone yet?”

“Nah… he’s still up there. That’s ‘is truck over there.” Creed pointed toward a large, unmarked van with blacked out windows parked in the loading dock at the back of the hospital. He stood back with his arms crossed, looking at the money in Sherlock’s hand intently. “So… we done ‘ere?”

“Not quite,” Sherlock replied, pocketing Creed’s fee and flicking is cigarette to the ground. He grabbed the kid roughly by the arm and pulled him across the street. When they arrived at the loading dock, Sherlock pushed the kid against the wall. “You stay here. No one else goes in and no one comes out, right?”

“Absolutely not,” Creed replied.

Sherlock nodded and went around to investigate the van. It was a hulking beast of a vehicle, circa probably the 1990s. The windows had been painted black, obviously by an amateur, and there were no licensing plates. He tried the back doors and then pulled a set of lock picks from his coat pocket. With a glance over his shoulder, he worked quickly, praying that there was no alarm. It was only a matter of seconds before he was able to open the back of the van and crawl inside. Stacked high on both sides of the cargo bay were industrial looking coolers with locks. “Interesting…” Sherlock mumbled to himself, using his pick to work at the padlock on the cooler nearest him. With a lot of fiddling and a little brute force, Sherlock managed to open the lock and push the chest open. The chest was filled with ice, which he pushed aside, pouring it onto the floor of the van. In the bottom were tightly wrapped plastic packs. He didn’t have to unwrap them to tell what they were. The blood gave it away. “Organ theft? Really? Boring…” Sherlock sighed, jumping down from the back of the van. To his surprise, Creed was still standing by the door smoking a cigarette. He started to say something as Sherlock passed, but thought better of it upon seeing his expression.

Once inside the hospital, he made his way toward the mortuary. It was fairly quiet aside from the occasional call over the intercom. There was no one around, making it easier for Sherlock to sneak through the labyrinthine halls. Passing by an office, he could hear voices. He paused, ducking under the windowed door to listen.

_“Look, Markus, everything’s under control. Soon it won’t even be an issue.”_

_“There’s too many mistakes, Stephen. Mr. Mueller is starting to get very nervous about our involvement with you. Every viable specimen that’s lost is worth thousands. I don’t have to tell you how this looks. And by the way, you still owe us…”_

_“There are no mistakes. As soon as I get rid of that particular thorn in my side, things will run much more smoothly. You’ll get your money and your specimens and we’ll all be very rich. Dr. Barker is down in the lab right now retrieving your first payment.”_

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Stupid. So they were trying to get rid of Molly for asking too many questions about their little body snatching business. Organs and tissue fetched large prices on the black market. Desperate people were willing to overlook morality in order to save their own lives. He’d better hurry if he was going to intercept them.

**OoOoOo**

It was frigid when Molly rolled out of Sherlock’s bed after midnight and suddenly realized that she had to go home. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep. She had only wanted to be alone for a few minutes. She’d had every intention of getting up and having dinner with everyone else, but evidently Sherlock hadn’t woken her, figuring she needed the rest. Speaking of, where was he anyway? She sat up and listened for a moment. Nothing. Molly rose from the bed and padded down the hall toward the sitting room. John and Mary were curled up on the couch watching a movie. They regarded her with a smile.

“Wake up, sleepyhead!” Mary chirped with a wave. “We thought you died in there. There’s a container in the fridge with leftovers if you like.”

“Oh… no… I should probably go home. I don’t have any clothes to wear…” she stammered, still trying to shake the sleep from her eyes. “Where is Sherlock?”

“He left several hours ago. A case or something,” John lied.

“Why don’t you just stay here, love?” Mary said. “I think I’ve got some clothes in John’s closet you could wear. And it’s awfully cold out there.”

“No, thanks,” she replied, pulling her coat on. “I need to be back at the morgue by 6 in the morning.”

Despite their best efforts, John and Mary weren’t able to talk her into staying. She arrived at her flat an hour later, wondering how in the world she would ever get back to sleep after her five hour nap. She unlocked the door and crept in quietly, fumbling for the lightswitch. As she flipped it, the lights fluttered to life and then died. Dead bulb. Molly sighed. The perfect ending to a perfect day. She pulled her coat from around her shoulders and attempted to hang it on the rack by the door. It fell to the floor in a heap as she missed the hook. “Fuck it,” she murmured. Carefully, she maneuvered through the room, barely able to make out the shapes of the furniture. She hoped that she still had some bulbs left in the cupboard.

Suddenly she was grabbed from behind and pulled off of her feet. She tried to scream, but her attacker’s heavy, gloved hand clapped tightly over her mouth. She struggled, kicking and screaming as she was carried across the floor and into the lounge. Her mind ran over every possible scenario and she tried to remember some shred of that self-defense class she’d taken when she first moved to London. “It’s awfully late to be coming in by yourself, Miss Hooper,” he whispered against the shell of her ear. She immediately recognized Sherlock’s voice and breathed a sigh of relief as he set her back on her feet.

“You idiot!” she shouted, smacking him about the shoulders and chest. “You scared me half to death! I thought you were a… sex-crazed maniac!”

“Well… that’s up for debate,” he teased, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her close.

“How did you get in here?” she questioned.

He rolled his eyes. “Your spare key. Obviously.”

“How did you know to come here? I was at Baker Street waiting for you.”

“It’s after midnight and you didn’t bring a change of clothes. Lucky guess.” He winked and hugged her again, lightly kissing her lips. “And of course, John texted me.”

She laid her head against his chest, listening to his heart beat as he led them through the flat and down the hall toward the bedroom. “I’m so glad you’re a stalker,” she said. As they approached the small room, she heard the gentle dripping of water. “What’s going on?”

“Just shush,” he replied, taking her bag and tossing it into the chair by the wardrobe. He smiled affectionately as he noticed that she was wearing layer upon layer of wool. “Were you cold this morning, Molly?” he laughed, unbuttoning the shapeless cardigan and pushing it off her shoulders.

“A little.” She didn’t tell him that layering her clothes had been a habit since childhood. Whenever she was nervous or wanted to hide, she covered herself as much as possible. The morning’s impending meeting with Doctor Doom had incited a fashion disaster that consisted of several layers of wool and cotton in addition to her frumpy parka and sensible shoes. Sherlock didn’t seem to mind. He peeled away each layer, tossing them to the floor behind her in a fluffy pile until she stood before him completely nude. “Uhm…” she mumbled, feeling extremely exposed given that he was still wearing the suit he’d been wearing all day. “You’re still…”

“Oh. Yes.” He carelessly pulled his jacket and shirt off, throwing them on top of her clothes before leading her into the bath. Her deep, claw-footed bathtub had been filled up with water so hot she could see the steam rising. Sherlock had evidently put some sort of oil in the bath water that had a spicy sweet scent of patchouli and amber. It flooded her senses, making her feel lazy and sexy. “Into the bath with you, Miss Hooper.” She did as she was told and stepped into the tub, wincing slightly at the heat. Slowly she lowered herself under the water and lay back against the cool porcelain. She closed her eyes and sighed as her body relaxed. She could almost feel the tension of the day slide off of her skin like the beads of water. After several moments of silence, she began to think that Sherlock had left the room, but then she felt the gentle scraping a loofah across her shoulders and up the back of her neck. Gently, he moved her hair aside and scrubbed the warm suds into her aching and tense shoulders.

“You know…” she sighed. “I still can’t figure it out.”

“What?” he asked, squeezing the scented water over her chest and arms.

“Why you’ve decided to be so nice to me,” she giggled.

“Because you’re letting me.” She shivered as he rubbed the loofah across her collarbone and around each breast. The warm beads of water and soap collected around each nipple and dribbled downward. They were swollen and sensitive and Molly couldn’t help but sigh as the coarse surface of the sponge lingered. He leaned forward, his chin resting on her shoulder as he whispered in her ear, his soothing and sensual hands never stopping their luxuriant torture of her body. “If something is bothering you, why are you so reluctant to tell me?” he asked.

“It’s nothing, Sherlock, really.” She looked down, examining the back of his hand and noting that he had cuts on the back of his knuckles.

“Not according to John and Mary.”

Molly sighed. “They shouldn’t have bothered you with that. Besides, it wouldn’t do to have you dropping people off of buildings.” She turned and looked at him with a mischievous grin. “That’ll kill ya.”

“Funny,” he replied.

**OoOoOo**

When her mobile rang at 4 am she was sure that it was the old lady next door complaining about the noise. Could she help it if the walls in her bathroom were thin? And who knew that a loofah sponge could be so pleasurable? “Sorry Misses Phillips,” she mumbled into the phone.

“Molly? Is that you?”

“Oh! Mike… sorry…” she sighed, snapping awake and sitting up, trying not to jostle the bed and wake Sherlock. “What’s the matter?”

“Do you think you can come in a bit early? I know you aren’t due in until 6, but I need you.”

“Uhm…” she stole a glance at Sherlock, still turned away from her with the blanket pulled over his shoulder. “Sure… I guess so. But where’s Dr. Manning?” Just his name tasted like bile in the back of her throat.

“Just… come when you can,” he replied, avoiding her question and hanging up quickly.

When Molly arrived, there were several police cars parked out front. Not so unusual for a morgue except for the sheer volume. She walked through the doors of the mortuary on the way to her office when she noticed some familiar faces standing in front of the bank of cold chambers. “Greg? What are you doing here? Has there been a murder or something?”

“Not exactly. We just arrested your new boss.”

Molly had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. “What? Why?”

“Well, I got a text last night from Sherlock saying we should come to the morgue at Bart’s. Nothing too urgent, it said. So we got here a couple of hours ago only to find your boss and his assistant in a cold drawer, bleeding from every visible orifice and straddling a dead body.”

“What?!”

“Yeah, along with a couple of cellowrapped organs that had been stolen from corpses or comatose patients for sale on the black market.”

“Oh my God…”

“I know, right? When we pulled them out, both men were practically hypothermic and raving about some guy in a long coat that beat the shit out of them. When they woke up, they were locked in a morgue drawer with their _patient_.”

**OoOoOo**

“I’d have never suspected it. I really wouldn’t. Doctor Doom was a supplier for an international organ smuggling scheme. It’s like something out of Shelley,” Molly said with a shudder. “The good news is, he’s gone for good and I’m the acting chief.”

“That’s great!” John exclaimed. “Do you think you’ll get the promotion?”

“Who knows. But at least I don’t have him to worry about anymore.” She snuggled against Sherlock as they walked toward the school where Gabriel’s friend Katie would be performing. As soon as they approached the building, Gabe’s eyes were everywhere and he insisted on being let down from where he’d been riding on his father’s shoulders.

“Dad! Let me down! I think I see Katie!”

“All right, but don’t run off where I can’t see you. It’s crowded here.” That was an understatement. Children and parents were milling about everywhere. Kids being pummeled with shepherds’ crooks, kids being poked in the eyes with the corners of angels’ wings, parents shouting for their children to eat their dinner quickly… it was mass hysteria. Just the kind of place that always put Sherlock on edge. But Gabriel was excited about it and it was an opportunity for him to get used to the idea of school. Sherlock cringed. He didn’t want to think about it. Not that he would ever admit it, but he liked having Gabriel with him all the time. Mycroft was still adamant that he attend a private school that would ensure placement at a prestigious boarding school in three years, but Sherlock couldn’t quite bear the thought of that. He’d gotten used to the kid and would miss him too much if he were gone. Reluctantly, he let Gabriel down and watched as he ran through the crowd toward the little redheaded girl.

**OoOoOo**

“Katie!” Gabriel called out to his friend. She turned and saw him, her face lighting up as she ran toward him.

“Gabriel! I’m so glad you came to my play! I’m singing a solo!” She threw her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek.

“I told you I was coming,” he murmured, blushing deeply from her kiss. “I like your wings,” he said, running his fingers along the glittery edges of the angel wings.

“Thanks! My mom made them. It’s just pantyhose stretched over a coat hanger. But they’re the biggest. I’m the head angel.” She smiled proudly.

Just then Gabriel noticed something he had never seen before.   Katie was wearing glasses. “You’re wearing glasses,” he said, his tone questioning.

“Yeah, I have to wear them for school. On the playground I get to take them off. I hate them.”

“Why? I think they’re pretty,” Gabriel said. “Molly wears glasses when she works sometimes. And she’s the prettiest lady I know.”

“Hey, four eyes! Who’s your friend?” Gabriel turned to see an older boy standing near them, a sneering expression on his face.

“Oh no…” Katie sighed. “That’s Eli. He’s seven. He always picks on me.”

“Why?”

She shrugged. Gabriel could tell that she was nervous now. The blush in her cheeks deepened and she shifted from one foot to the other.

“Didn’t you hear me, Four Eyes?”

“Leave me alone, Eli!” Katie shouted.

“Is that your boyfriend?” the kid giggled then made kissing noises.

“He’s just my friend!” she replied, stomping her foot.

“Four Eyes and Mop Top sittin’ in a tree…” the little boy started to chant. Gabriel looked back at Katie and could see that her eyes were stinging with tears that she was refusing to shed. He squeezed her hand tightly and gave her a warm smile.

“It’s okay, Katie,” Gabriel said. Then he turned around and walked straight up to Eli. The little bruiser was at least a head taller than Gabe and had a pudgy frame to go with it. Gabe didn’t say a word and gave no warning before he punched the other kid square in the nose, dropping him like a stone easily. The kid groaned, holding his nose which had started to bleed all over his shepherd robe.

Gabe turned on his heel and offered Katie his arm. “C’mon Katie. My dad’s over here.”

 


End file.
